


The Jaguar and Bijoux

by Gypsy_Rose_2014



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: D/s, Dom/sub, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Erotic Games, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:17:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gypsy_Rose_2014/pseuds/Gypsy_Rose_2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bijoux was used to being let down. A screwed-up junkie, jaded by the evils of the world, she was lost. Maybe she just needed a strong hand to help her find her way. Sherlock/OC. Contains drug references, triggers and in future chapters, dark erotic themes (D/s).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing except Bijoux.

The sound of their feet dragging across the dirt strewn floor woke me up.  There were two voices, one much higher pitched than the other.  One of them sounded like a speed-head trying to explain Cricket—fast and growing in volume and octave.  The other voice was much lower.  It was warm and oozed along the cinderblock walls like an oil slick.  I liked it.  That low, purring voice sounded like safety. 

“She ain’t moved for days, Shez.  I’ve already chased two smackheads away from her today.  They’d have raped her for sure if I hadn’t come in.  She ain’t safe, knackered out of her mind like she is.”

They were obviously talking about me.  The sex-crazed smackheads in question probably couldn’t have gotten it up to rape me.  Not that I would have given a shit if they had.  I wouldn’t feel it.  I never feel anything.  I wanted to call out to them or move toward that jaguar growl, but I couldn’t make my arms and legs move.  No matter how loud I commanded them, my extremities were dead flesh hanging limply at my sides.  For a second I thought I might be dead all over, but then I realized that I could hear my heart beating.  It pounded through my veins and the liquid _whoosh whoosh_ noise was deafening.  That’s the thing about morphine—your body might be dead but your mind and senses are wide open. 

“I’m curious as to what exactly you want me to do, Billy.  I’m not exactly in the habit of taking in charity cases.”  The jaguar again.  God, his voice was an amalgamation of sex, drugs and fire—three of my favorite things. 

“I didn’t know who else to call, Shez.  If she stays here much longer, she’s gonna die, mate.”

“She’s a junkie.  She’ll probably die anyway.  And I’m not your mate.”

I heard them ascend the stairs and their footfalls as they crossed the floor to the ruined mattress where I lay.  I was alone.  All the other junkie boys and girls had gone home to play.  “Bijoux,” Billy called to me.  I blinked once.  He kicked my foot, but I still refused to move.  “C’mon, girl.  Get up.  You been here too long, love.”  I wanted to tell him not to call me that, but still I wasn’t quite ready to trip-trap down the yellow brick road to reality.  “Come on, Bijoux.  If you don’t get up, I’m leavin’ you here to the junkie sex fiends.”

“Ugh… this is just stupid,” the Jaguar said with an exasperated sigh.  “Bijoux!” he said.  His voice was stern and immediately I looked up.  “It’s time to go.”  He towered over me.  His lean frame was wrapped in a sort of trench coat that blended in to the shadows around us, but his face was pale in the moonlight that glittered off of his eyes.  “Now.”  I sat up on his command, rubbing my eyes.  The world was blurry.  I’m not sure when the last time my eyes were open was.  This morning?  Maybe last night?  “Can you stand?”  The Jaguar knelt down, prying one of my eyes open and staring into it.  I shrugged, trying to pull away from him, but his gloved hand held my chin.  “She’s overdosed, but alive,” he said to the one called Billy.  I had seen Billy before.  I think he tried to wake me up.  “Come on, Bijoux.  Stand up for me.”  He offered his arm and I tried to take it.  Try is probably a strong word.  I placed my hand on his arm and then watched with morbid fascination as it slipped off and fell into my lap again.  “Nope…” he said, catching me around the waist and pulling me closer.  He hooked an arm under my knees and picked my limp body up off the floor. 

“Should I call somebody?” Billy asked. 

“I thought that’s why I was here,” the Jaguar said.  “Besides, I don’t think she’d last through a night in jail.”  I groaned a little when he carried me out of the doors and into the street out front.  It was cold and immediately I began to shiver.  He held me a little closer and I nudged my nose under the fold of his scarf.  He smelled like leather and old tobacco.  It was a nice smell.  “Hail a cab,” he told Billy and the other man quickly obeyed.  Obviously this man who held me was one used to having people do what he told them.  After several minutes, a black cab stopped in front of us and the Jaguar got me inside.  I was still shaking with the cold and before sitting down beside me, he pulled his coat from around his shoulders and draped it over me.  I sighed with relief and pulled the soft wool around me tighter.  It was still warm from his body and that smoky, earthy scent was magnified.  It clarified my foggy brain enough to feel the pain.  The dull ache that let me know it was time for another fix.  “221 Baker Street,” he barked at the cabbie as he slammed the door behind us. 

**OoOoOo**

When I woke up the next time, I was laying on a lumpy couch.  A man knelt over me, but not the Jaguar.  This one was shorter, with a kinder face.  My arm was stretched out and there was a sore kind of stinging on the inside of my elbow.  When my eyes focused, I could see that there was a tube attached to my arm and leading to a bag hanging over my head on a light fixture.  My first instinct was to tear it free, but the man kneeling by my side shook his head.  “No no, Bijoux.  It’s medicine to counteract the morphine,” he said, taking my hand and laying it across my middle once more.  “It’s all right now.  You’re safe.” 

“Where am I?” I croaked.  My voice was unrecognizable to myself and it felt like I had a mouth full of cotton balls.  “I…” I tried to speak again, but the pain in my throat wouldn’t allow it and so I just closed my mouth.

“You’re at 221B Baker Street,” the man answered.  “My name is John Watson and I’m a doctor.”  At hearing the word ‘doctor’ I stirred, trying to rise from the couch.  Doctor meant hospital and hospital usually meant either rehab or jail.  Neither of which I was particularly interested in.  “No no no…” he said, trying to hold me down.  “You have to stay here, Bijoux.”

“I have to go… I have to…”

“Be still.”  It was the Jaguar’s voice again.  His voice was not gentle like the doctor’s, but its gruff reprimand was a comfort and I lay back down and closed my eyes. 

“She looks to be okay,” John said, whispering.  I heard him stand up and cross the room, thinking that I’d passed out again.  “A bit malnourished, dehydrated, but basically okay.  She’s got some bruises and track marks, but it doesn’t look like anyone beat her up or violated her.”

“Good.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“No idea.  But I couldn’t leave her there, John.  Billy was right.  Any longer she’d have died or someone would have come along and killed her.”

“You realize that as soon as she walks out that door she’ll go back there and shoot up again.”

“Then I guess we don’t let her walk out the door.”

“What’s this we?  I have to go home.  Mary’s probably pacing the floor now as it is.  It’s nearly three.  Look, the bag will probably finish about four.  She’ll need the fluids after that.  You’ll have to watch her and make sure that she doesn’t choke on her own vomit if she gets ill.  She’ll probably sleep for a while and when she wakes up, I suggest taking her to the nearest rehabilitation hospital.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Sherlock—“

“I said I’ll think about it.  Go.  Hurry, Mary will be worried.” 

I heard their voices fade when they left the room and I sat up, taking care to keep the makeshift IV in place.  I stared around the room, taking in as much of my surroundings as I could.  It was warm.  A fire burned in the fireplace opposite.  It was the only light in the room, thankfully.  My eyes still hurt from being in the darkened drug den for so long.  There were books and papers everywhere.  It was a marvelous disarray that alluded to a cluttered mind, but not dirty.  A man lived here.  Alone.  No telltale signs of a woman could be found.  No cosmetics, random jewelry or the like.  And it smelled like a man in this flat.  More of that leather and stale tobacco, but here there was also the sharp scent of burning wood and something more medicinal just underneath. 

“Ah, you’re awake.”  His voice broke my reverie and my eyes rolled slowly to him.  Out of the shadows he was just as intimidating as he had been before.  Gone was the long wool coat and scarf, revealing a lean, but muscular frame.  He was sturdy with large hands.  I imagined that those hands could crush anyone who might cross him.  His features were sharp and cool, highlighted with an unruly mop of black curls.  Very English.  Not one single line of his countenance was round or soft and when he spoke, his mouth curled into a beautiful snarl. 

“What am I doing here?” I whispered.  It was the only sound I was capable of.  My throat felt like I’d swallowed a cocktail of razorblades and lemon juice. 

“The Wig called me to get you.  You were passed out in a drug house for at least two days and he was worried that you were dying. “

“What are you? Some kind of junkie guardian angel?”

“No. “

It suddenly dawned on me what was going on and it left a bad taste in my mouth.  It was obvious from his thin frame and shadowed eyes.  The eyes of one who rarely slept.  His fidgeting and pacing.  He wasn’t nervous. He was like a sports car up on cinderblocks, raring its engine with nowhere to go.  “Oh I see… you’re one of those reformed junkies.  Dragging us out of our dens of vice and showing us a better path?  Perhaps through our Lord and Savior?” I gave a bitter, mirthless chuckle.  “Don’t waste your time.”

“I would never be so weak as to depend on false idols to lead me to sobriety.  But I’m not so pathetic as to spend my days lying in a puddle of my own vomit on a dirty mattress, waiting for vagrants and smackheads to slit my throat.” 

“Fuck you,” I spat, sliding down on the couch and turning away.  I want to block out his words.  He’s right.  I am pathetic.  A little part of me does wish they had left me there on that rat-infested mattress to die.  Maybe the next life will be better.

He laughed.  “You are clever, aren’t you?  Fuck you.  Is that all you’ve got left in there for the man who saved your life.”

“Whatever, man.  You don’t know _anything_ about me.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“All right, then.”  His steps were heavy and slow as he came toward me.  “The clothes you’re wearing are filthy, but not cheap.  Designer labels in designs only a few months old.  Your hair has been freshly highlighted and your eyebrows are perfectly shaped.  Probably in a salon.  You were in a drug house for two or three days but your fingernails are perfectly clean.  Not so much as a chipped nail.  There’s fresh bruising on your arms, chest and legs—distinct patterns that indicate you were hit with fists, not objects.  Whoever your abuser is, they carefully avoided places where it would show—your face, lower arms, neck.  They know you and probably operate under the delusion that they love you.  And you stupidly think they love you back.  Am I wrong?”

He was right but there was no way I would tell him that.  So I just rolled over and went back to ignoring him, hoping he would afford me the same courtesy.  He leaned over me and checked the bag of drugs that hung over my head.  I heard him pull the heavy armchair up beside the couch and then the rustling of the leather as he sat down.  Looking over my shoulder, I tried to watch him without him noticing.  His thin fingers flipped through the pages of a newspaper.    If he noticed me he didn’t let on, so I just lay there.  The drug that dripped slowly into my veins from the bag was cold and it made me shiver.  I was sleepy, but I just couldn’t close my eyes.  Every time I tried it was like there was grit or something caught under the lid, so I just stared at the pattern on the wallpaper.  For the longest time I just lay there, trying to find a way out through the maze of fleur de lis. 

**OoOoOo**

Ironically, two hours later I was on my knees in prayer over the Jaguar’s toilet.  I had the crazy thought that I didn’t even know the guy’s name.  It didn’t last long as another wave of nausea overtook me and I vomited spectacularly once more.  I could hear myself moaning over the bowl as I lay my cheek against the cool porcelain.  The round, deep bowl just amplified the sound and my head throbbed.  This was withdrawal.  First the nausea, then the pain.  My head already felt like it was going to split down the middle and spill my brains on to the bright white tile under my knees.  Soon that pain would radiate down my neck, across my shoulders, into my chest and finally settle in the pit of my stomach.  Like a thousand knives stabbing me over and over.  Next would be the voices.  The voices that always returned to tell me I was worthless and ugly.  Poor little rich girl.  None of this was new.  I had felt it before.  Quit so many times, but it never stuck.  I always managed to find myself back here, kneeling on the floor. 

I crawled across the floor to bang on the door.  “Please…Mr…. Whoever you are… I just need a hit.  Just one… just a little bit to get me through.”  I used my sweet little angel voice.  “Please?”

“Are you done tossing up yet?” he asked.  His voice was close.  He was standing right by the door. 

“I feel so sick.  Can’t I just have something for the pain?  It’s my head…”  No response, but I could hear him breathing.  And a clicking noise like he was texting on a mobile phone.  “Hello?  Can you hear me?”  I slammed my fist against the door again, but still he was silent.  “You know… I’m… I’m sorry about what I said before.  My name is Jessica.  They call me Bijoux down at the house, but that’s not my name.”  Finally, I heard the doorknob turn and he opened the door.  I was still down on my knees and I stared up at him.  “Hi.”  It sounded so stupid, but it was all I could say.

“Get up, Bijoux.”  His voice was cold and held no emotion. 

I reached up and put my trembling hand on his stomach.  Then the other.  His breathing never wavered or quickened.  It was as if my touch had no effect.  “Please… I need something… I hurt so bad…”

He shrugged away from me and I fell down, scraping the heels of my hands on the tile.  “Get used to the pain.  It will be your friend for the next few days.”

When I realized that he was unmoving, I started to cry.  It was pathetic, but I needed it.  I needed just a little to help with the pain.  He just stood over me, staring down with that angular jaw tense and set in place.  The sobs shook my body, reminding me of the tremors that were surely coming.  My nose ran until I could taste the salty mucous on my lips.  It turned my stomach and I rushed to the toilet, throwing up again until there was nothing left and I was dry heaving on the floor.  “You’re cruel… fucking black hearted bastard…” I spat.  My shoulders collapsed and I lay prone once more.  I wanted to scream, but I had no more strength.  After several minutes, I felt him pick me up and carry me from the bathroom.  I tried to struggle, but he held my arms at my sides.  He took me to another room and lay me down on a large bed and covered me up. 

“Go to sleep,” he said.  He turned and took a trashbin from beside the door then put it down beside the bed.  “Don’t throw up in my bed.” 

“I hate you,” I replied as he pulled the covers up to my chin, tucking me in like a child. 

“Good.  You’re starting to feel again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a proposition is made.

I have no idea how long I slept.  Two days?  Three?  I couldn’t be sure except that when I finally fell asleep after the Jaguar tucked me in, it was dark and now that I was awake, it was dark again.  Maybe I only thought I’d been asleep for days.  It could have been just hours.  The first thing I was aware of was that I’m cold.  Evidently in my fitful sleep, I wrecked the bed, throwing off the heavy duvet and leaving only a thin, flat sheet wrapped around my shoulders.  Probably the heat of my body coming down from the drugs. 

As soon as I sat up, I was sorry.  The vague throb behind my eyes became a stabbing pain that threw me back against the pillows.  I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to block the pain that swirled around, bringing back the nausea.  My eyes tried to adjust to the dim light that streamed in through the window beside me.  Looking around, I tried to orient myself.  Where the hell was I anyway?  This must be the Jaguar’s bed.  Everything around me screamed that a man lived in this space.  Despite the disorder of the rest of the flat, this space was very ordered.  The wardrobe was open slightly, revealing suits and crisp shirts hung in neat rows, arranged by color.  The furnishings were fairly utilitarian:  hard lines, dark wood that you could smell, sparse décor.  There were no framed photographs of family or girlfriends… or boyfriends. 

I swung my legs around, slowly gaining my bearings as I stood up.  The cool, smooth hardwood under my feet squeaked as I began to move around the room.  Sliding my fingertips along the edge of the dresser, it was hard to stop myself from looking inside the drawers.  For what, I’m not sure.  Spare clothing?  Drugs?  Perhaps just some clue as to the identity and motivation of the enigmatic man who had rescued me. 

My hand was poised on the doorknob when I heard the music.  A single violin played.  A melody so haunting and sad that I immediately felt tears spring to the corners of my eyes.  Opening the door, I crept silently down the hall, following the strains of the violin.  When I reached the lounge I saw him there, standing by the window.  His eyes were closed as he played, holding his instrument so tenderly that for a moment I almost wondered if this was the same man with the cold demeanor who had spoken so harshly before.  Certainly no man who could produce such music was capable of the stoic indifference he’d shown to me.  It was as if every emotion that he’d been holding at bay was pouring forth from his fingertips and into this instrument, flowing through the strings where it might escape and hang heavily in the air.  If this was true, then I had been so wrong about him.  I dared to creep closer, climbing into his armchair and making myself small.  I didn’t dare disturb him.  I wanted his music to go on and on.  I wasn’t ready for it to end.  I paused to wonder what sort of lover this man might be.  Passionate, surely, but also violent and tender and calculated and riotous.  That moment, listening to him play, he revealed everything and nothing. 

“Feeling better?”  His voice jerked me from my thoughts and I found myself staring up at his looming figure. 

“A little bit,” I croaked, barely recognizing my own voice.  “My head is throbbing.  How long have I been asleep?”

“You were in and out of consciousness for two days.  Probably for the best though.  You won’t remember the worst of the DTs most likely.”  He turned and went toward the kitchen area, laying his violin down on his desk as he passed.  He moved with such a dark grace, I couldn’t help but watch.  “Tea?” he asked, picking up the kettle. 

“Yes, please,” I replied.  I was waiting for him to strike up conversation, but he didn’t.  An uncomfortable silence descended.  It was uncomfortable to me, but he seemed impervious.  This was his space and he felt no need to fill it up with chatter or noise.  I, on the other hand, was not so cool and began to babble uncontrollably.  “Look, I’m… I’m sorry about… you know… before.  I’m not usually so…”  He didn’t respond, so I kept it up, even though my brain was screaming for me to shut my stupid mouth.  “Anyway, I guess I was jonesin’ for a fix and I got a little desperate. You know how that is, right?  Of course you do, you were an addict…”

“I’m still an addict,” he replied finally, handing me a cup of tea.  The scent was so sweet and warm, it immediately calmed the nerves in my belly. My hands still shook and I gripped the cup with both hands. 

“I thought you said you were a reformed junkie.”

“No.  _You_ said I was a reformed junkie.  I didn’t say anything.  Of course, you seem reasonably clever and as such should know: once an addict, always an addict.  The only thing that changes is your choice of intoxicant.”

“What do you mean?”

“To cut one thing out, you must replace it with another.  Simple.”  He stopped in front of the chair where I sat, staring down at me with those glacial eyes and stony expression until I blushed and vacated his seat.  There was nowhere else except the sofa or a dining room chair, all of which were farther away from him than I wanted to be, so I just sat on the floor in front of him.  Strangely, it seemed right.

“Is that why you play?” I asked.  He looked puzzled by my question, cocking his head to one side and narrowing his eyes as if he didn’t understand.  “Your violin.  I heard you playing before.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.  That’s what woke me.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied, sipping his tea. 

“Don’t be sorry.  It was beautiful.  I’ve never heard anything like it.  I hope you’ll play again sometime.”  I kicked myself at the awkwardness of the last statement.  As if I were inviting myself to stay.  Not to mention that his tense demeanor suggested that I had interrupted something very private. 

Neither of us spoke for several minutes.  There was a fire in the fireplace and I stared at the flames as they crackled around the wood, wondering what it must feel like to be a log, licked by fire.  Would it burn or would I feel nothing after a while?  I remember having the same thought when I first read about Joan of Arc in school.  When they burned her at the stake, did she feel anything or would shock kick in, numbing her to the pain?  Maybe that’s what the morphine was.  Liquid shock. 

“I can feel the questions rolling around in your brain and it’s giving me a headache.  So spill it,” he said, his voice once again startling me. 

“Well… I… I just wondered… I’ve been asleep for a couple of days and now I feel better.  Tired, but better… why?  I should be… still… “

“My doctor friend sedated you.  I watched over you to be sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit, but he kept you pretty out of it.  For the physical part anyway.  The psychological discomfort is still on its way.  Just when your body starts to recover from the cocktail of poisons rushing through the veins, when you feel like you’re finally going to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the real cruelty of your addiction descends.  Out of your mind with need, you’ll do anything for one fix.  Make all sorts of promises.  Lie.  Even become quite the little whore to get what you want.”  He was right.  And I was scared.  “You’re not out of the woods yet, little one.  And probably won’t be for a while.”

I nodded and clutched the warm porcelain teacup closer.  “So… are you going to call the rehab hospital?”  My voice faltered once more as I asked.  I would run away if he said yes.  I couldn’t bear that again.  And from there were only two choices:  jail or my family.  Both equally attractive. 

“Rehab is not what you need,” he replied simply, as if that was supposed to answer my question.  “Nor is jail.  Which leads to my next question:  where will you go, if not here?”

I thought about his question.  Where would I go?  The little junkie in my brain was already whispering that I should go back to The House.  I closed my eyes, trying to quiet it.  It worked.  For now anyway.  I suppose I could go back to my parents’ house.  My mother had asked me numerous times not to come back as long as I was taking drugs, but she always gave in and opened the door.  My stepfather actually preferred it.  At least he had when I was younger.  If I was high, I wouldn’t fight him too hard when he pawed at me in the dark.  “I don’t know.  I have a flat where I lived with Dax—that’s my boyfriend.  Or he was.”

“ _Was_ before he beat the shit out of you for using the rent money on drugs.”

“How did you know that?”

“It wasn’t a difficult leap,” he replied, taking another sip of his tea.  His eyes never left me.  It was disturbing.  Like he was studying me.  “In any case, you won’t go there.”

“I won’t?” I asked, that defiant tone trying to creep back in.

“No.  You won’t.”

I decided not to argue.  “Then, I suppose my parents would let me stay with them for a while.”

“Nope,” he said.  “You may as well go back to The House as to go back there.  Your parents are merely a detour on the way to morphine.  I suspect that your mother is a more socially acceptable junkie.  What does she take?”

“Xanax, Diazepam… sometimes Oxycodone.  She’s an insomniac.  And she has these panic attacks…”

“No.  She’s a smackhead just like you.  She just has little bits of paper that say it’s okay.  Perhaps that’s why she doesn’t notice her husband’s drunken attempts to rape her daughter.  More likely she ignores it in favor of the money.  She has to fund her habit somehow.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I don’t know.  I notice.  And you talk in your sleep.”  I flushed with embarrassment.  Had he been watching me the whole time?  What other secrets might I have whispered in the dark to this stranger?  “No, you’ll stay here.”

“Wait.  What?”

“You’ll stay here,” he repeated, rising from the chair and depositing his teacup on the side table. 

My head spun as I watched him dart from one end of the room to the other.  He was frenetic, pushing his large hands through his hair.  He was thinking, examining every possible strategy and he was already exhausted.  “I couldn’t ask you…” I began.

“It wasn’t a request.”

“But I… I don’t even know your name.”  I was stammering, sitting up on my knees.  I wanted to stand but his gaze was so heavy.  I couldn’t seem to lift my exhausted body.  “You can’t make me stay.”

“Quite right.  If you really wanted to leave.  But I don’t notice your running toward the stairs.  Your body language says that you want to stay, practically begging to stay.  You know that if you walk out that door, that you’ll go right back to the shithole where I found you, only this time I won’t be coming round to help you.  You’ll die this time and I won’t shed a tear or have even one tiny pang of guilt.  I only offer my help once and if you’re stupid enough not to accept, then that’s entirely your problem, little one.”

“What are you offering?”

Coming toward me, he offered his hand.  “Nothing you want, but everything you need.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ground rules are discussed.

Every game has rules.  Whether stated or implied, they’re always there.  I’ve always had issues with rules.  With authority in general, really.  Probably because I always believed in those fairy tales about being taken care of and that “best interests at heart” nonsense.  It is an illusion that abusers always use to give you false hope.  “I’m doing this for your own good.”  “Look at what you made me do.”  “It’s all your fault.”  Ironically, The Jaguar lived by his own set, yet hated authority almost as much as I did.  Structure in chaos, he called it.

“There are only two rules by which you must abide while you’re here.  And by here, I mean living here,” he said.  He wandered through the flat and I followed him like some damn lost puppy.  He made me feel so weak and I hated that, but what choice did I have, really?  He walked into his bedroom and went to the wardrobe, pulling out a teeshirt and loose, striped pajama trousers.  “One:  there shall be no drug use of any kind.  Nothing that will alter your mind or body chemistry.  No morphine, cocaine, no oxy-contin.  Not even so much as a paracetamol without my say.  No smoking, no alcohol, no caffeine.  Understood?”

“Wait.  No coffee?  I’m sorry, that’s impossible,” I replied. 

“No.  Just improbable.”

“What about you?  You smoke.  I’ve seen you.”

He snickered.  “Silly girl.  These aren’t my rules.  They’re yours.  When you’re clean, you might have new ones.”  He tossed the pajamas at me.  “You can wear these for now.  Just until we can get you something more appropriate.”

“I have clothes at my flat—“

“Surely you must have deduced by now that anything of value at your former boyfriend’s flat is long gone, either in the dumpster or on the back of his latest victim.“  He turned and left the room, expecting that I should follow.  I paused, wondering how I’d found myself in this situation.  Marveling that I would even consider the Jaguar’s strange offer.  Especially considering I didn’t even know his name.   “Bijoux!” he shouted impatiently from the other room.  I followed, finding him in the bathroom.  He leaned over the tub, turning on the tap until the water was steaming.  “There is but one other rule:  you will do everything that I ask without question or argument.”

Now I get it.  He’s a perv that stalks junkies.  I looked him over, taking in the lean but surprisingly muscular form.  His alien features were intriguing and the thought of submitting to his weirdo sexual whims wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it would be nice not to be right just once.  “Okay, deal breaker,” I began, dropping his pajamas on the tile and turning on my heel.  “Thanks so much for saving my life, but I really must be on my way,” I called over my shoulder as I rushed down the hall to search for my shoes.  He followed me, but strangely didn’t seem disturbed by the sudden cold feet.  He leaned in the doorway, watching me tear apart the flat looking for the beat up Doc Martens I was certain that I’d been wearing upon my arrival. 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said.  He was unmoving, his arms folded over his chest. 

“Oh I’m not frightened,” I said, snorting derisively.  “You’re not the first sexual deviant to cross my path in the last twenty-eight years, Mr… uhm… whoever you are.  But I think I’ll pass on the freaky stuff.  Ring me later when I’m less sober.”  My words were tumbling faster and I could have kicked myself for sounding like such a blabbering idiot.  He didn’t seem to notice.  He just stood there with an almost amused expression.

“You assume that my requests would be sexual in nature?” he asked.

“Well aren’t they?”

“My, you are broken, aren’t you, little one.”  I noted the way his lips lingered on those lazy consonants.  Just the tone was enough to ignite that little flutter deep down in my belly, but I wasn’t going to fall for those blue eyes or unruly curls that framed his face.  “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.  I’ll figure that out later.  What do you care anyway?”

He shrugged.  “Perhaps I’m just intrigued.  Like a movie you don’t really want to watch, but you can’t bear to look away from until it’s done.”

The hard exoskeleton I’d come in with flexed again and I rushed up to him, my fingertip pressed against his sternum.  “Look, I don’t like power games.  My life might be shit, but at least it’s my life.  And I’ll never let anyone else take control of it again.”  I was suddenly acutely aware of how much larger he was than me.  His delicate frame was deceiving.  Now that I was here, so close and alert, I took inventory of the breadth of his shoulders, his height, and the strength that was evident in the musculature of his arm.  “You got me?  Never.”  I tried to sound more confident than I was, but his smirk let me know very quickly that he wasn’t buying it.

“Poor darling,” he said.  His tone was so condescending and sarcastic.  I wanted to punch him, but I knew that I’d only succeed in breaking my hand.  “Is this what you call control?  Letting yourself be abused?  Drowning yourself in drugs to take away the pain?  Trust me. That’s not control.  You have no idea what control is.”

“And you do?”  My words were laced with venom and I could hear the tears behind them.  If only I could just vanish.

“I know what you need, Bijoux. If only because I remember.” He took my hand and this time I let him, staring down at the blue veins and delicate bones that lined the back of his wrist.  “You need so badly for someone to take care of you.  You keep seeking it out and falling miserably short.  Not that it’s your fault, really, but you need something to hold on to.  Ballast to keep you from floating adrift.  But you can’t anchor to drugs or abusive lovers and the more you try the farther afield you wander.  When I ask that you acquiesce to my every request, it is because I’m requiring your complete trust.”

I could feel the hot, salty liquid on my cheeks and I angrily brushed them away, digging my fists into my eyes as if it might stop the tears.  “I don’t trust anyone.  Besides, this little contract of yours doesn’t seem to have you doing much acquiescence.”

“Of course it does.  I promise that I will never ask anything of you that would bring harm or discomfort.  Nothing that you would be unable to perform.”

“And if I refuse?”

He stepped aside and gestured toward the stairwell.  “The door is open.” 

I considered his words carefully.  After several moments, I came to the conclusion that I was absolutely terrified.  Intrigued, but terrified.  Why was he so keen to help me?  No one had ever been this determined.  “How… I mean… why?  Why would you want to do this?  I mean, I don’t even know who you are.” 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” he said and suddenly it dawned on me.  I knew I’d seen him before.  I’d seen him a thousand times in the newspapers.  The clever detective that faked his own death.  “My friend said you needed my help.  I agreed.  I don’t generally save someone’s life only to let them die a week later.  Then all my time would have been wasted.  Much like it’s being wasted now.  Make your choice.”  He didn’t wait for my answer, but turned his back and stalked back down the hallway to the bath.  I was running out of time and options.  It was apparent from his demeanor that he was not a patient man.  But he was right.  He was right about every single thing.  This was risky, but my only chance at salvation.  All the other options would surely lead to death. Slow or fast, what did it matter?  What choice did I have but to follow?

The bathroom was a welcome warmth.  The steam rising from the water he’d run for me made the air sticky and close, but it was better than the chill I’d been feeling since my arrival.  Very different from my first visit to this room when I had been glad of the cool blue tile against my feverish body.  There was even a faint scent of rose petals and patchouli that hung in the mist.  Had he actually poured bath oil into the water for me?  He didn’t seem like the bath oil type, really.  More of a shaving lotion, tobacco and expensive whiskey type.  “Give me your clothes and get into the bath,” he said. 

“What?  My clothes?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear me?”

I stammered.  Surely he didn’t mean for me to disrobe in front of him.  “Well… yes, but… aren’t you going to leave so I can bathe?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?  I mean… I…”  I could feel the flush in my cheeks and the trembling was back in my hands.  “I’ll be naked.”

“Problem?”

“Well… yes.  I need a little privacy.”

Sherlock snorted, a disdainful smirk on his face.  “Privacy is a luxury that you haven’t earned just yet.   Besides, I’m a scientist, Bijoux.  I can assure you that you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

The muscles in my arm tensed as I clenched my fist.  His nonchalance stirred the rage in my belly once more and I wanted to lash out.  “I knew it,” I snarled.  “A pervert taking advantage of a poor junkie girl with nowhere to go.  The last time I checked, this body was still mine.”

“Wrong,” he snapped back, taking my wrist and roughly pulling me closer to him.  So close that I could feel the heat radiating off of his skin.  I was so cold.  I wanted to lean into his warmth, but the fear and anger coursing through me wouldn’t allow it.  I did the only thing I could.  I fought back, trying to wriggle from his grasp.  He held fast so that I couldn’t escape his gaze.  Despite his sudden crudity, his voice never rose, never wavered.  “Your body is mine.  Evidently you don’t give a shit about it anymore, so one of us has to.  So take your fucking clothes off and bathe.”  He dropped my arm and stepped back, sitting down on the closed toilet and pulling a cigarette and lighter from his pocket.  “I can assure you that I won’t be aroused in the least.”

I took one more look at the door.  I was free to leave at any time.  He’d said so.  Part of me wanted to grab my shoes and run, but the other part was intrigued.  So intrigued by this dark figure.  Was he truly so unaffected? He seemed so.  His fingertips were still as he held the cigarette to his lips and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs.  I searched his face and manner for signs of anger, but there was nothing.  He was just as still and calm as he had been before.  And it was unnerving.  I wanted to do something to make him react.  Shout at me, hit me, kiss me… even just a hitch in his breath would be enough. 

I turned my back and slowly began pulling my dingy clothes off.  The smell of them was nauseating.  They smelled of sweat, grime and the sour scent of burning drugs.  Crack cocaine was the worst, followed closely by methamphetamine.  Both of them smelled of rot and decay.  I had been offered both many times, but never partaken because of that stench.  Now with these clothes, it was all I could smell.  It motivated me to get undressed faster, almost forgetting about the stranger that sat on the toilet seat behind me.  Soon I am naked and try to cover myself, but of course there is too much skin to cover with these thin arms and hands.  My heart pounds in my chest and I’m so embarrassed.  Humiliated.  He is probably standing behind me watching, disgusted by my waifish and grubby form.  Thinking how it would be better just to get it over with, I stepped over the lip of the tub.

“Stop.  Come here,” he said, gesturing with an outstretched hand.  With my head down and my fists clenched to stop the shaking, I obeyed.  His expression did not change.  He didn’t seem to be angry or aroused or even moved by my nudity.  He reached out and took my hand, looking my body over with the clinical eye of a scientist.  For some odd reason, I didn’t feel dirty or ashamed at his examination.  In fact, when he touched me, my pulse slowed and my breathing evened out into a slow, laborious pattern.  After several minutes, he nodded and lit another cigarette, motioning toward the tub. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bijoux learns the first lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do appreciate the kudos! Personally, this is one of my favorite stories I've done--despite the darkness. But I promise there is light coming. Just not yet. ;)

The water was so hot that I was seething as I lowered myself into the tub.  “Is it too hot?” Sherlock asked, obviously sensing my discomfort.

“No,” I replied.  “Once I get used to the warmth, it will feel good.”  My skin was already pink, flushed with the rush of heat.  I did my best to relax in this rather strange situation, lying back against the tub and sliding down as far as I could get into the water.  The walls and the light overhead was so bright.  I had to close my eyes to keep them from watering.  I didn’t want him to think I was crying again.  He’d think I was weak and I wasn’t sure how this whole thing was going to play out just yet.  What if I had to stage some sort of crazy escape?  My heart was telling me that I could trust my host, this strange guardian that had come into my life so suddenly.  My head was a different story.  I could hear that logical little bastard in the back of my mind screaming words like pervert, rapist, psychopath.  But then again, what did I have to lose?

The room was silent, almost oppressively so, save for the constant drip of the faucet.  As I lay there, I concentrated on the gentle rhythm.  _Drip.  Drip.  Drip._   It was nearly lulling me to sleep again and then he spoke.  “Don’t fall asleep,” he said.  It was a command, but a gentle one.  More that he was concerned that I would slip beneath the water and drown before I even realized. 

“Sorry,” I whispered.  “I guess I’m still kind of out of it.”

“There’s soap and shampoo on the little shelf above you.”  I stretched to get it.  A small bottle of golden liquid.  It looked like something from an old apothecary shop right down to the tiny cork that stoppered it.  Carefully I opened it and waved it gently under my nose.  It was such an intoxicating scent, not flowery or particularly spicy.  A bit like woodsmoke and a shade of peppermint and pine.  A little more masculine than I liked but it was definitely his scent and smelling like him was not an unpleasant thought.  My mouth watered and I glanced his way.  He looked bored and again I was desperate to make him react.  I looked around for a sponge and didn’t see one, so I poured a glob of the scented soap into the palm of my hand.  Rubbing it between my palms, I was overwhelmed by the scent once more.  It made me feel lazy and sexy.  The viscous gel dripped between my fingertips and slid in tiny rivulets over my chest and midsection.  Slippery and wet like warm honey.  Slowly I began to rub the oily soap into my skin: over the shoulders, down each arm.  I carefully avoided my breasts, though I was desperate to cover them.  The nipples hardened painfully as the heat of the water crept into my skin, chasing the chill away.  I wondered if he was watching and stole a glance in his direction.  He seemed oblivious.  Again, that terrible urge to make him react took over and I found myself cupping each breast, using the tips of my fingers to paint the areolae with the slick fluid.  My eyes never left him as I trilled my fingertips along the crest and down into the hollow between them.  In my mind’s eye, they were his long, sinuous fingers sliding over the sensitive flesh. 

His eyelashes fluttered just a bit, almost undetectable, but it was there.  “Sherlock?” I said, struggling to find my voice.  “I need some help.”

He looked up, hearing my voice breaking the silence.  He seemed puzzled by my words and for a moment he did not respond.  “Is something wrong?”  Of course.  He thought there was some side effect of the drugs working on me. 

“It’s just… my back.  I can’t reach behind.  My ribs are so sore.”  It wasn’t a lie.  In my final farewell with Dax, a kick to the side had been his parting gift.  “And my hair.  It’s such a mess.  I’d really like to wash it.”

He nodded, exhaling smoke as he smashed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe.  He rose and walked over to the tub.  With a single, graceful movement, he knelt by the tub and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.  Reaching behind him, he opened a small cabinet and produced a flannel.  He dipped it into the warm bathwater and I was suddenly exceedingly aware of his proximity.  When he reached forward to take the bottle of soap, I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck and again I shivered.  “Are you cold?” he asked. 

“Not really,” I replied, subconsciously hugging myself.  I jumped when I felt his fingertips at the base of my skull.  He brushed my hair away from my neck as he began to scrub gently at my skin with the flannel.  He pressed hard against my aching muscles, exerting just enough pressure to soothe.  Slowly he worked the nubby fabric of the flannel down my spine and around each hip.  His fingertips feathered lightly over the curve of my ass and though I felt the heat rise into the apples of my cheeks, I leaned forward, almost involuntarily allowing him greater access to my most intimate places.  I listened closely to his breath, hoping for any change in tempo.  There was none. 

“Lie back,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.  I did as I was told, lying back against the cold porcelain.  “Close your eyes.”  I felt him gather my hair, thick and tangled, in his fist and lower the ends into the water.  Then his fingers brushing through it, carefully picking at the tangles and knots.  Now that the rest of my body was clean, I could smell the sour stench of The House clinging to the strands of my hair.  Smoke and sweat and the sharp ammonia-like odor of urine.  I wanted it away from me.  The ugliness of my addiction.  For the first time I was embarrassed by it and I prayed that he would wash it away quickly.  With careful hands he scooped water over my hair, getting it wet.  The shampoo felt like ice as it penetrated deeply under the thick tresses and oozed over my scalp.  I shivered once more, but I wasn’t sure if it was the chill or the feel of those hands as they lathered the shampoo.  Those hands that were so gentle, yet I could feel the strength in them.  I found myself wondering how they would feel gripping my hair tightly, pulling my head back to crush his mouth against mine.  The thought was so vivid that a small moan escaped my lips.  If he heard me, he said nothing, only continued threading through each strand until my hair flowed like water through his fingers. 

I heard him stand just behind me and I opened my eyes.  Looking up at him he seemed so much larger and for a moment I could only cower, both wishing and fearing that he would touch me again.  “You’ll do,” he said and to my surprise offered me a hand.  I took it and he helped me stand.  Immediately I reached for a towel, but he beat me to it.  He wrapped the warm towel around my shoulders.  I tried to take it, but he shook his head, indicating that I should just stand there as he dried my body as if I were a child.  If I hadn’t been so tired, I may have fought him, but now I just didn’t have the strength.  And the thought that this man had taken control of me so quickly, while frightening, was also a comfort and I found that I wanted to bend to his will.  I let my arms fall limply to the sides, resisting the urge to stop him as he rubbed  the towel over the swell of my belly and down.  Then my hips, then thighs.  I bit down into my lower lip so hard that I nearly yelped in pain as his terrycloth covered hand slipped between my inner thighs and dried the tingling flesh there.  I wondered… or perhaps hoped, that he would take it upon himself to wipe the beads of water that had collected in the nest of soft curls at the apex of my thighs.  He didn’t and when he pulled away I sighed a bit louder than I had intended. 

“You have scars there,” he said. 

“Where?” I asked.

“Just here,” he replied, brushing his fingertip over a criss-crossed web of thin red lines on the inside of my right thigh. 

“I…well… uhm…”  I stammered, not wanting to tell him the truth. 

“A thin blade made these marks.  They were deep, but not so deep as to require stitches.  Just enough to bring the blood to the surface.  Just enough to cause a tiny kiss of pain.  Most definitely self-inflicted.”

I tensed, slipping back into my mask of cold indifference.  “Sometimes a little pain makes you feel better.  Reminds us that we aren’t dead.  That there is something warm and wet beneath the cold, hard flesh.”

“Or maybe you think that if you can cut deep enough that all that pain will just slip out of the wound.  Then, watching it heal… it’s a reminder that you can always go back.  That you aren’t just a lost cause.”  His voice was low.  Mild. It soothed me and I wanted him to keep talking.  “Listen to me carefully, Bijoux,” he said, straightening to his full height.  His fingers gripped my chin and he tipped my head higher so that I was looking into his face.  “Never do that again.  Do you understand?”

“I think so,” I whispered.

“You don’t think it.  Know it.  Never hurt yourself again.  It is beneath you and abhorrent to me.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding, my gaze lost in those silver-gray pools of his. 

“Say it.  Say ‘I will never cut myself again’.”  His expression was stony and though his voice was soft, I could hear its intensity. 

“I… will never…cut myself again.” 

For the first time since my arrival, I saw my strange new friend smile.  Just for a moment.  So quick that later I would think I had dreamed such a smile, but it was there.   And suddenly I didn’t want to disappoint him. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bijoux exhibits desperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning on this one for coarse language. Just in case.

_“You are nothing.”  His words tear another gash in my side and when I look down I can see straight through to the bone.  Bright white and splintered, it contrasts against the red blossom of the blood that pours from the wound and soaks through the thin silk covering my torso.  Reaching down, I try to stopper the blood with my hands.  For a moment it works and then I start to feel the pain.  Trying not to scream, I bite my lip.  It isn’t hard but then I can taste the coppery, bitter flavor on my lips.  I think that I’m crying, but the maroon film that clouds my vision tells me that they’re tears of blood.  Everywhere.  The blood is everywhere.  I can smell it and my stomach rolls over. “You will die and no one will even notice.”_

_“No!  It isn’t true!”  I try to scream, but the blood is choking me.  A gurgling bubble rises from my throat and bursts, splattering more of the sanguineous effluence against the marbled flesh of my breasts.  I notice now that I am naked, lying on the cold stone of what can only be my own sepulcher._

_“It’s always been true.  You are nothing to me.”  I cannot stop myself.  My fingers curl into a vicious talon and I raise my hand into the thin blade of light that shines down.  For a moment, I’m dazzled by the sparkling of the single pinpoint of light against my flesh.  I stare for a while and then I am aware—I have no control.  My hand falls down and I watch with fascination as I tear my own heart from my chest._

_Surprisingly, I feel nothing._

**OoOoOo**

I wake with a start.  My breathing is labored and I can feel beads of sweat dripping from the ends of my hair.  I reach up to touch it, needing to reassure myself that I’m not really bleeding.  I’m disoriented in the silent darkness.  As my breathing slows, I sit up and the first thing I am aware of is the stabbing pain behind my eyes.  It’s blinding and I can feel the nausea rolling in.  Then there’s the creeping of a thousand tiny creatures just under the skin.  I know this feeling.  This is the want.  The mental dependence that would drive me mad.  They physical detoxification was nothing in comparison to breaking the habit.  The voices that were so loud you could no longer shut them out.  The dreams and the fears that started you down this path that might never go away, all of them shouting at once. 

Looking around as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I remember that I’m lying on the floor by his bed.  He wouldn’t leave me to my own devices and insisted that sleeping in his bed would be inappropriate, as he intended to sleep, so it was either the floor or the chair by the window.  Somehow, I felt this was yet another test of my resolve and so I agreed.  For some strange reason, I wanted to be worthy of him and I had not yet earned a place by his side.  I raised up on my knees and peered over the edge of the bed.  He was there, his dark silhouette cradled by the shadows cast by the moonlight.  His body moved up and down slowly with each breath.  He was definitely asleep.  The perfect opportunity to explore.  Perhaps there was something here, anything that might take the pain away and let me sleep. 

I stumbled to my feet and cast one more glance over my shoulder to be sure he wasn’t watching.  “Once a junkie, always a junkie,” I thought to myself as I stared around the room.  Most of us had the same hiding places for our secret stashes.  I spied the dresser across the room, and figured I’d start there.  Tugging gently, I opened the top drawer and slid my fingertips over the carefully arranged socks.  They were catalogued perfectly, not a one disturbed.  Probably not the burial site.  Replacing the drawer, I ran my hands along the back of the dresser, hoping that I might find a small bag cellotaped to the back.  No such luck. 

The door to the bedroom was open halfway and I was careful to slip out, not wanting the hinges to squeak.  I did fairly well until my toe hit the runner in the hallway and I stumbled.  Covering my mouth with both hands, I sidestepped into the bathroom.  Once I caught my breath, I realized I could still hear Sherlock’s slow, even respiration in the other room. I decided was safe and closed the door behind me.  I went for the medicine cabinet first, pulling everything out and rifling through all the drawers.  I even checked the toilet tank, but no luck.  I sat down on the edge of the tub, wanting to cry.  It wasn’t fair.  My head was throbbing and I just wanted to sleep.  _“You’ll never sleep without chemical help.”_   I knew that arrogant little bastard in the back of my mind that whispered was absolutely right.  I needed a fix.  Just something small so that my mind will stop racing and my body will lose this tremble.  A blessed dreamless sleep is all I need.   Just one more night.  There must be something. 

I tore through the flat, no longer caring if he wakes.  Opening every cabinet and pulling down every glass.  I examined every teacup, searched behind every box of loose tea or cereal.  I pushed aside ancient cans of soup or beans—nothing.  Even in the space between the stove and the backsplash.  I noticed the bookshelves and desk, both packed with books and papers.  The perfect place to hide a tiny sachet of cocaine or pills.  Or perhaps I might get really lucky and find his kit.  He’d alluded to the fact that morphine was his favorite.  Like mine.  And when he rolled up his sleeves to wash my hair earlier, I had noticed the faint scars of track marks—he definitely had a kit hiding around here someplace.  I walked through the lounge, cluttered with books, folders, maps and used teacups.  Then I saw it.  A small leather pouch lying on his desk.   “Got you,” I said aloud, rushing to the desk.  I picked the small bag up and unwound the leather tieback holding it closed.  The whole thing unrolled like a bedroll.  I dug around in the tiny pockets, hoping that I wouldn’t stab myself on a syringe.  I wasn’t quite ready to exchange body fluids with him.  Not yet anyway. A pen, something that looked suspiciously like a scalpel, and assorted other oddities were hidden in the little compartments.   I gasped, feeling something smooth and glassy.  Eureka!  It had to be a bottle of morphine, possibly nicked from his doctor friend.  What was his name?  John?  But when I pulled it from its pocket, it was only a tiny magnifying glass. 

Suddenly, I was enraged.  I felt the anger explode from the pit of my stomach until I could taste the hot bile in the back of my throat.  Suddenly, I screamed and threw the magnifying glass at the fireplace.  It shattered with a satisfying, tinkling sound against the hearth.  Then I emptied the leather satchel, throwing everything around.  It wasn’t enough.  The decrepit wooden chair by the desk was light in my hands and I picked it up, smashing it as hard as I could against the wall.  When I saw the wood splinter, it was like something deep inside myself broke and I started tearing around the flat, destroying everything I could.  Books, folders, photographs—nothing was safe from my wrath.  The collage of photographs pinned to the wall behind the couch shredded under my fingernails .  I wasn’t aware that I was screaming until I saw myself in the mirror over the fireplace.  I looked insane.  Some kind of maniac who had finally had their psychotic break.  My hair was all over the place, my cheeks were read and streaked with salty trails of tears.  Even my shirt—his shirt—was torn and hung down over one shoulder. 

“Are you quite through?”  I gasped at his voice, whipping around so violently that my foot became tangled in the rug and I sat down hard on the floor, banging my hip on the coffee table.  He gave no reaction, made no move to comfort me, so I just lay there on the floor sobbing until I was gulping for air.  “Did you find what you were looking for?”  His tone was just as relaxed as if he were saying ‘good morning.’

“No,” I spat. 

“No.  Nor will you,” he replied.  I stared down at the shadow he cast upon the floor.  He was enormous and dark—absolutely terrifying.  Would he throw me out?  Call the police?  Beat me up?  Cut me up?  God knows I wouldn’t exactly blame him.  “There aren’t any drugs here.  I’m clean.”

My voice sounded so pathetic as I started to beg.  I hated myself for it, but the pain in my head, my heart and in the depths of my belly where all the truth lies—it was too great.  “Please… help me, please, Sherlock.”  I used his name, hoping it would incite a shred of sympathy.  “Just a little something so I can sleep.  So the dreams will stop.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do,” he replied.  “Get up and go back to bed.”

His cool commands weren’t going to work this time.  Then a thought came to mind.  I had seen that slight flutter of those long, sooty eyelashes in the bath earlier.  He may seem Godlike, but he was only a man and every man had a weakness.  I got up on my knees and began crawling slowly toward where he stood, leaning casually in the doorway of the hall.  “Please… my head aches.  I can’t sleep.” He watched with cold indifference as I knelt before him.  I took his hand and he didn’t stop me.  I pressed the knuckles against my lips and then cupped his palm against my cheek.  “I need just a little fix to get me through.  You know what that’s like, right?”  I lowered my voice to a whisper, “I know you do.”  I took his fingertip between my lips, kissing lightly, then letting my tongue flicker lightly at the tiny spot where his nails were cut close, almost to the quick.  “I could do whatever you wanted,” I said, my lips feathering against the smooth flesh just before taking his finger into my mouth and suckling lightly, a not so subtle suggestion of what I was offering.  He was silent.  I brought one hand to his side, sliding just under the hem of his teeshirt and touching the skin just over the waistband of his trousers. 

“Take your hands off of me,” he said, then jerking back so that I fell prone at his feet.  “Don’t insult me.  I’m not so weak that I could be seduced by a desperate junkie whore and the implication belittles us both.  Should I ever decide to fuck your mouth, it will be you begging me, not the other way around.  Go to bed, Bijoux.”  He turned and walked back down the hall, stopping at the end to wait for me.  I had no choice and I hated him as I got to my feet and followed.  I couldn’t stop the acidic tears and cried silently as I pushed past him to go inside his bedroom.  I started to lie down on the pallet but he stopped me, pulling back the duvet on his bed and gesturing for me to lie down.  “I’m done sleeping,” he replied to my silent question.   I couldn’t look at him as I lay down.  I was too humiliated by what had just transpired between us.  He left for a moment and I thought perhaps he was gone, but seconds later he returned with a glass of water and two pills between his fingers.  “Here.”

I stared at the pills and then back to him.  “I thought you said—“

“Aspirin,” he replied.  “For your head.”

I nodded and swallowed the pills.  He turned to walk away.  “Sherlock?” I called, stopping him.  I didn’t want him to leave.  I was afraid to be alone with my thoughts again.  The blood would come back and the voices and the longing.  I was so scared and I needed his strength, despite how pathetic and embarrassed I was. 

“Yes?”

“Stay with me.”

“Why?”

“I’m… I’m frightened.”  I reached out for him.  “Please.”  Finally he nodded, walking around the bed to the chair by the window.  He sat down and opened a book.  He didn’t say anything and was not close enough to touch, but the cadence of his breath and the rustle of the pages was enough and I slept.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they begin to understand one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit lighter. Thanks for hanging in there.

The thunder was so loud it shook the walls, waking me from a dreamless sleep.  I sat up, looking around.  Every time I woke up in this place I seemed to be disoriented. At least now I knew where I was.  I was in the flat on Baker Street with the mysterious Jaguar.  I smile, thinking of my name for him.  It seemed more appropriate than his given name.  “Sherlock.”  I let the word tumble over my tongue, drawing it out so that I could feel each syllable.  His name was even harsh.  That angry terminal consonant.  Jaguar was more languid.  It described him better.  A vicious and efficient predator.  Is that what he was?  Did he intend to consume me, body and soul?  I could already feel him hunting me and I found myself wanting to be his submissive prey.  He’d begun feasting on my mind as soon as he spoke the first words and I hoped that I might be a hearty meal. 

Then the memory of the previous night came crashing down and my cheeks were on fire.  I could only hope that he might forgive my ridiculous display of desperation.  Of course, looking back on it, I wouldn’t have minded tasting his flesh.  I imagined that it would be the most scrumptious of delicacies:  melting salty-sweet decadence that would linger on my lips and tongue.  I lay there in his bed, wondering if some higher power brought me to him.  Or if he might be as intrigued with thoughts of me.  Closing my eyes, I could see his face.  A ghost that existed in my mind.  Those almond-shaped, downturned slits in which the entirety of the cosmos was revealed.  His mouth that could be both gentle and sneering, nearly simultaneously.  Could I be blamed for offering myself?  It would hardly be a sacrifice. 

Of course, underneath, there was a protective armor of loathing.  He was the obstacle that stood between me and sweet, unfeeling oblivion.  I wasn’t prepared to forgive him for that just yet.

I stood up, wobbly on my feet and flinching at another clap of thunder.  Lightning lit up the room that was still surprisingly dark.  Surely it isn’t still night time.  Ever since coming here, I had very little concept of time and place.   I hope that eventually, I’ll be able to recover some sense of normalcy.  Because right now, I feel like I’m living in some weird, Gothic Alice in Wonderland.   Looking around the room, I spy a folded pile of clothing sitting on a chair in the corner of the room—the chair he’d been sitting in when I fell asleep.  I moved closer to investigate, thinking about that poor, doomed curious cat.  Upon investigation, I found a pair of jeans and a comfy looking jumper.  Something caught my eye, fluttering to the ground as I held the jumper up to my chest.  I picked it up and recognized what could only be Sherlock’s scrawling penmanship.  “This was all I could find.—SH” 

I began to dress. The jeans hugged my hips tightly, accentuating the plump curvature. He must have studied my body fairly closely to find such a perfect fit.  The jumper was large and smelled of his room.  It must be something of his that he’d never worn, for it didn’t have the telltale signs of frequent use:  tatty seam lines, frayed cuffs, slight discolorations.  I stretched and felt my muscles and joints groan in protest.  I wasn’t sure how long I had been in the flat, but I’d spent most of it lying around or sleeping.  My muscles ached with disuse.  I sat down on the stool in front of the old fashioned vanity and stared at myself in the mirror.  My hair was wrecked and there were dark circles under my eyes.  “Dear God in heaven,” I sighed.  “I could haunt a house.”  I picked up a hairbrush at the side.  It was obviously his.  I could see the long strands of curly hairs clinging to the bristles.  I couldn’t help but pull a few strands free.  I held them to my nose and inhaled the clean scent of his shampoo.  Then I realized how ridiculous that was and began brushing my hair slowly.  The thick, auburn waves were tangled and knotted where I’d slept on it wet and now as I tried to drag the bristles through it, I gasped with pain. 

Suddenly he appeared behind me in the mirror.  I wondered for a moment how long he’d been standing there.  He was so quiet.  I almost never heard him move.  “Good morning,” he said.  It appeared that he didn’t remember the previous night.  He didn’t mention it and even seemed somewhat cheerful.  “I’ve made tea if you’d like a cup.  And there are biscuits as well, if you feel like eating now.”

“Yes,” I said, my voice crackling and hoarse.  “I’d like that.  I am a bit hungry.”  It was true.  This was the first time since before going to the drug den, that I’d awakened hungry.  There was even hope that I might keep it down.  Once more I pulled the brush through my hair, getting it stuck on a tangle.  I gasped with pain.  The harder I pulled the tighter the tangle became until there were tears forming in the corners of my eyes. 

“Let me help you,” he said.  I watched his careful approach in the mirror.  The way he moved was so fascinating.  I couldn’t help it.  I wanted to be angry and humiliated after what had happened between us the night before, but I couldn’t stop myself from staring.  His strides, the way he took my hair in his fist and pulled gently at the knot.  And then there were those green and gold pools of starlight that were always watching, always figuring me out. 

“I wanted to say… about last night…” I was stammering.  Mentally I kicked myself for sounding like such a silly little girl.  “I’m so sorry.  I don’t know what got into me.”

He put up a hand, signaling that I should stop.  “Don’t mention it.  It’s over.” 

“But… that’s not… how I want you to see me,” I stammered.  I was ashamed of myself.  And not just for last night, but for every night since we’d met.  The awful things I’d said.  The disgusting things I’d done out of desperation and need. 

“And how do you want me to see you?” he asked, that emotionless tone of his unnerving me.

“I… I’m not sure.  I just don’t want you to think I’m some kind of junkie whore.”

“Then don’t behave like a junkie whore,” he said simply, threading his fingertips through the ends of my hair.  “At any rate, I’ve been ignoring most of my work for the week that you’ve been here.  I can’t do that any longer, so I’ll be seeing clients today.  You’ll need to look presentable, hence the clothes.  I’ve sent Billy after some of your things, but I wasn’t sure how long it would take or if any of your things would be salvageable.”

“How did you know where I live?”

“As I told you before, I’m very observant.  Your style of dress, proximity to the drug house and a few questions was all I needed to figure it out.  You’ve slept most of the week, but I haven’t been idle.”  He finished detangling my hair and handed the brush back to me.  “When you’re ready, come out and have tea with me.”

I could hear voices as I made my way down the hall several minutes later.  The Jaguar, of course, but another voice that was much warmer.  It sounded vaguely familiar and as I emerged into the lounge, I recognized the kind doctor with the soft hands and quiet voice.  “Oh, hello,” the doctor said, turning toward me.  He offered his hand and I took it, not wanting to look into his face.  “You’re looking much better, Bijoux.”

I nodded, still looking at the floor.  Thinking back over the last several weeks of my life, I felt a deep sense of shame.  I just couldn’t bring myself to speak for fear I’d either weep or say something I might regret. 

“Say thank you, Bijoux.”  My head snapped up at his voice.  He was staring expectantly, pausing mid-pour over the teapot.  “He saved your life.”

“Sherlock… it’s really not that…”

“It is important.  Grace is not a trait that Bijoux has been blessed with.  She must learn it quickly, lest your gift of life be wasted.”  He looked up once more at me, his eyebrow quirked in a way that left no doubt as to his intention.  My jaw was tense and I could almost hear my teeth grinding together.  Very few people would dare to tell me what to do or say.  The doctor had a worried expression and a flush of color on his cheeks, as if he were afraid he were about to witness something that perhaps he shouldn’t. 

“Thank you… Doctor…”

“Watson.  John Watson,” he said, visibly exhaling as he shook my hand.  “And I was glad to help.”

The doorbell below rang loudly and both men looked at one another, exchanging what I swore might be eager smiles.  The Jaguar—Sherlock, he handed me a cup of tea and gestured that I should sit.  First I went to the sofa, but then noticed that there were books, papers and files strewn across it.  The hard chair at the desk was still lying in pieces in the corner of the room from last night’s outburst.  Dr. Watson sat in one of the tired looking armchairs by the fire and left only the one I knew was Sherlock’s favorite.  I didn’t dare sit there and instead sat down on the floor beside it.  Crossing my legs under me, I sat quietly sipping my tea.  Sherlock took his place beside me just as a scruffy young man tromped up the stairs.

The man looked unsure as he stepped into the room, peering around the doorframe.  Short, stocky frame, at least three days’ worth of facial hair.  His clothes were dingy and he had dark circles under his eyes as he made his way inside.  “I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes?”

“That’s me.  I’d offer you a seat but she broke it,” Sherlock said, gesturing toward me with a jerk of his chin.  The man looked down and I shrugged.

“I… uhm… okay.”  The client wrung his hands, trying to figure out what to do with them as he shifted on his feet uncomfortably.  Finally, Dr. Watson got tired of the man’s fidgeting and got up to get him a chair from the kitchen. 

“Off you go, then,” Sherlock urged the man. “Don’t be boring.”

The young man’s eyes darted from Sherlock to Watson, then to me and back to Sherlock.  He was obviously trying to figure out what the story was with the three people currently staring at him so intently.  “Uhm… well… my name is Nash.  Lukas Nash and I think someone’s trying to kill me.”

“Anyone who’d ever smelled your aftershave, I’d imagine,” Sherlock sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling.  He was either completely unaware that he’d just been rude or completely uncaring.  Watson sighed and rolled his eyes.  I wanted to laugh but it didn’t seem appropriate, so I just took another sip of my tea.  This might be entertaining after all.   “Go on.”

“Well, I know someone’s been in my flat.  I come home at night and things are moved around and it’s like they’ve left little clues.”

“Clues?  Such as?”

“Well… you know… lipstick stains on the glasses.  A woman’s shoe shoved under the couch.  But the weirdest part is… I think whoever it is, is also doing my laundry.”

That was the end.  I couldn’t help it.  I burst out laughing, spewing tea all over the carpet in front of me.  Then I realized I was the only one laughing and that all eyes were on me as if I had some kind of creature clawing its way out of my nose.  “Sorry…” I murmured.

“Do share your observations, Bijoux,” Sherlock said.

“No, really… I’m sorry…”

He reached down and brushed his fingertip along my cheekbone and down to my chin, tipping it gently so that I looked up at him.  “I’ve no wish to ask again.”

I took a deep breath as it dawned on me that I was being challenged.  Or perhaps he was just seeking to humiliate me as punishment for last night.  “Well… uhm…”

“Don’t stammer.”

“It’s obvious isn’t it?”  I looked at the other man who was watching our exchange with interest.  “You have a roommate, do you not?”

“Well yes…”

I nodded.  “I could tell by the way your keys still have the little label on them with your flat number.  I suppose it’s possible that you live there alone, but given your clothes and the way you’re sitting, it doesn’t appear that you’d have much money.”

“The way he’s sitting?” Watson asked.

“Of course,” Sherlock answered, giving me an approving smirk.  “People who have thick wallets that they keep in their back pockets tend to sit to one side.  His wallet being overstuffed that way suggests numerous credit cards.  Wealthy people rarely carry cash—or credit cards for that matter, meaning that he has a roommate.”  He winked at me and I could feel myself blushing.

“You’re right, but what the hell does having a roommate have to do with anything?” the client asked.  “He’s a bloke.   Why would he have anything to do with the lipstick stains or the laundry?”

“He’s a cross-dresser,” I spat.  “And he doesn’t want you to know about it.  So he does all the laundry so that you can’t see his… ahem… play clothes.”

The client looked from me to Sherlock, who nodded.  “So… I’m not being stalked?”

“Most likely not,” Sherlock replied, standing up and buttoning his jacket to nudge the guy out the door. “But if anyone murders you, do let me know.”  He stood at the door and waited for the client to leave, waving exaggeratedly as the man walked down the stairs.  Then he turned to me.  “That wasn’t bad.”

“I like Miss Marple.”

He sat down once more and for several hours, the flat was like Paddington Station.  People came in and out with their problems:  lost relatives, stolen money, mad scientists in the basement flat.  Nothing outstanding.  Each one had been turned away with either a quick explanation or a wave of Sherlock’s delicate fingers and a heavy sigh of “Boring.”   I sat there obediently, listening but deciding not to press my luck with my limited powers of observation.  Soon my eyelids began to droop and I lay my head on Sherlock’s thigh.  Dr. Watson, or John as he’d told me a thousand times to call him, seemed surprised by this gesture and even moreso when Sherlock began to absently card his fingertips through my hair. 

**OoOoOo**

When I opened my eyes, it was dark.  The only light came from the fireplace where flames crackled in the hearth.  I was curled up on the floor by the chair, but a small pillow had been placed under my head at least.  I sat up, pushing my hair away from my face and looking around.  Sherlock lay on the couch, having changed into comfy loose trousers and his dressing gown.  He was silent, save for the gentle sound of his breathing. At first I thought he was awake, but as I crawled over to where he lay, I noticed that though his eyes were closed I could see them moving rapidly behind their lids.  His fingertips were steepled under his chin and every so often he would whisper something to himself.  I sat there watching for several minutes, fascinated by the way I could almost watch him thinking.  His entire body was a window into his mind and it was mesmerizing.   Again, I was struck by the strength apparent in his seemingly frail form.  He was lean, but the musculature beneath his skin was hard.  I wanted to touch the lines of definition along his chest and down to the dents on either side of his pelvis.  The skin there was pale and perfect but then I saw it.  A puckered scar peeked out along his side.  I couldn’t see how long it was.  It disappeared under the dressing gown, but I could tell it was deep.  The dark, shiny skin had healed but the mark would never go away. 

“Your staring is very loud.” 

I gasped, clenching my fist tightly, almost guilty even though I hadn’t actually touched him.  “I’m… sorry…”

He opened one eye and peered down at me.  “Can I help you?”

“I was just…  I’m very curious about you.  I mean… I’ve never met anyone like you before.  I’m trying to figure you out.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, hating myself for sounding like such a little girl.  “I think it must be something to know you.”

“You’re quite an enigma yourself, little jewel.”

“What?”

“Bijoux.  It means jewel.”

“Oh.”  I had to look away.  His gaze was getting to me.  That fire and ice stare, it made me feel weak and I wasn’t sure I liked it.  “I want to get high,” I said, not really knowing why I decided to reveal it so matter of factly.  It was true, though.   His heavy examination made me feel all sorts of sensations that were unfamiliar and frightening:  weakness, shame, hope and most of all—arousal.  These emotions had been pushed out for so long that their reawakening scared me to death. 

“I know,” he said.

“How do I stop it?”

“You won’t.  You’ll always want to get high.”

I hung my head, despair weighing heavily on my chest now.  So this was what I had to look forward to forever?  Always wanting and never satisfied.  “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“How do you stop it?”

“Didn’t you hear me?  I said it never stops.   You’ll always want it.”  I felt my throat clench and the corners of my eyes burned.  “Puzzles.”

“What?”

“Puzzles.  I started using because I couldn’t make my brain stop.  I was always rushing about trying to keep up with all the ideas in my mind, tumbling and crashing all over each other.  Morphine made me quiet.  But morphine is bad for me, so I solve puzzles.  It gives me focus.  You just have to find something that will give you focus.”  Then he did something so curious.  He offered me his hand.  I took it and felt him pull me closer until I was climbing onto the couch with him.  He shifted his body until we lay on the sofa together, me wedged between the back and his body.  He was so warm and I burrowed closer.  He didn’t protest as I slid my arm around his waist.  In fact, he returned the embrace, holding on to my body tightly and tucking my head under his chin.  “Is this okay?” he asked.  For once his voice didn’t sound so sure.

“Yes,” I murmured.  My entire body relaxed and for the first time that wasn’t drug-induced, I felt at peace.  “Please don’t let me go,” I sighed.

“I’ve got you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which their relationship becomes complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has EXPLICIT content. If that's not your cup of tea, turn back now!

My days at Baker Street stretched out before me in a blur. There was a constant parade of clients and other characters that wandered in and out of the flat. I mostly just laid around, reading books and watching telly. Of course, there were those rare occasions where Sherlock would talk to me. Not that he didn't speak, but sometimes he opened up and those were the times I enjoyed the most. He seemed to know about everything and I couldn't help just sitting silent and still, hanging on his every word. He was articulate and wove his words carefully so it was like listening to poetry. But he was also funny and crude, sarcastic and witty. He had his moods, of course. Every so often, he'd get so bored that he'd just lie on the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness. On those days, I'd just leave him be rather than even trying to engage. He would snap and bite until I was close to tears, so I'd learned to just steer clear of him if he didn't get out of his pajamas all day.

Each night he allowed me to sleep in his bed and he would hold me close to him. I didn't mind. With my ear pressed against his heart and his arms wound about my waist, I felt safe and peaceful. Moreso than I had in a very long time. Perhaps this was what he'd meant about finding something that made me feel like the drugs did. A new addiction. Perhaps Sherlock was meant to be my new addiction. The only thing that distressed me was that I wasn't quite sure what my relationship to the mysterious stranger really was. The way he held me at night didn't seem sexual, really. It was protective, almost paternal. Then, there were other times when he looked at me with this predatory fire in his eyes. As if he were trying to figure out how to sneak up and attack. Like I'm his prey.

At night I often awaken to hear the strains of his violin coming from the other end of the house. I slip out of bed and pad down the hallway, seeking him out. He always stands by the window with the light from the streetlamps below illuminating his thin silhouette. Slowly I creep as if approaching a dangerous animal. I don't want him to stop. The strains of the melody are like the gentle trill of his fingertips along my skin. When the song ends, I'm kneeling at his feet. "You don't have to stop."

"I thought you were sleeping," he says. I close my eyes, just listening to his words. His voice pulls at something deep within and I savor it like an exotic fruit.

"Your playing woke me," I say, my throat raspy with sleep.

"Apologies," he replied, setting the instrument into its case. "I play when I can't sleep. I forget that others might hear me. I've been on my own a while."

"No… don't apologize. I like to hear you play." I offered a smile. He stared too long and I had to look away. His eyes are like little reflecting pools that show only the weakest points. "Why can't you sleep?"

He shrugged and picked up his cup of tea. "That's just how it is. I don't really sleep or eat while I'm working on a case." He sat down in his chair. "Tea?" he asked, holding up another cup. I nodded and crawled across the rug. I knelt in front of him as he passed me the tea. I took a sip and smiled. Somehow, he always knew just the right amount of sugar and milk. We'd only been together a few weeks and already he knew me better than almost anyone else. As I drank the tea, I realized that I was sitting on the floor at his feet even though there was a chair available. I considered going to the tattered old armchair opposite, but then I realized that I wanted to sit at his side this way. As if I were his pet. For some reason, the idea sent a pleasant thrum along my midsection and lower. I liked the thought of being adored and taken care of in such a way and he didn't seem to mind. "Is the tea to your liking?" he asked.

"Oh. Yes," I stammered, taking a sip. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me," he replied.

"On the contrary. I have much to thank you for, Sherlock. You saved my life." The words stuck in my throat a little and I coughed, trying to clear them. It was the first time I had admitted that I was on the fast track to an early grave when we met. "If it wasn't for you, I'd probably be lying dead in a gutter."

"Perhaps," he said.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you save my life? I'm a total stranger. What reason could you possibly have for bringing me into your life this way?"

He smirked and set down his teacup. "You still think my motives are sinister."

"Not at all. But from what I've seen and heard in my time here, you aren't one to suffer fools. Or take them into your bed and nurse them back to health. What makes me so special?"

"I never said you were special," he snapped. I nodded and my heart fell. He must have sensed my disappointment because he smiled. "I never said you weren't either."

I nodded and went back to my tea, staring at the swirl of milk foam as it spiraled around the cup. "I wish I could understand you," I mumbled.

He chuckled. "They all say that."

"Who?"

"Anyone who's ever met me." Sherlock sat in his chair, looking down at me. "I lied before."

"About what?"

"About not being able to sleep. It's true that I don't sleep when I have a case." He pulled a cigarette from a shoe that was lying on the floor under his chair. "But I don't have a case."

"So why are you awake?"

He took a long drag and exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling. His foot bounced nervously and after several moments he spoke again. "I wanted to get high. So here I am, okay?" This was obviously a heavy confession that he hadn't wanted to admit. "If I don't have a case, I get bored. When I get bored I want morphine. It's the worst at night when I'm alone. So I play." I just stared. I couldn't believe he was showing me his vulnerability. Ever since I'd arrived, he seemed so strong. So immovable. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Kind of. But you still haven't answered my question."

"Which one?"

I sat up on my knees in front of him, insinuating myself between his outstretched thighs. His eyes cast down and I felt him literally stop breathing. But he didn't push me away, so I decided to press my luck. "Why are you helping me?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe I see myself in you. Maybe I wish someone had been there to help me. Or maybe I just realize I've been such an insufferable git in my life that I needed to atone." I giggled at his words and to my surprise, he smiled. "Or maybe I like you."

"You don't strike me as the type to like anyone."

"Oh no? Think me incapable?"

"Not incapable," I said. "Just improbable. "

"I admit that my intelligence—"

"Arrogance."

"Whatever. It tends to isolate me. I don't mind. Most people are boring, petty little morons that aren't worth my trouble."

"But not me?"

"Not yet," he replied, his eyebrow raised as if challenging me.

I nodded, accepting his answer for the moment. I propped my head on my hands, "I have another question," I said as if asking his permission. For a moment I was struck by the fact that I could actually look him in the eyes now. Several weeks previous, I'd have been asking my question as I examined his shoes.

"Which is?"

I chewed my lip nervously. It was the question that had been burning in my head the last few weeks. Ever since he'd taken me into his bed so chastely. "Do you… think I'm… attractive at all?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well… I suppose not." Suddenly I lost my nerve and started to get up, but his legs locked around my sides so I couldn't move. "I was just curious."

"I see," he replied. "Would it make you feel more at ease if I found you attractive? Or perhaps less. Seeing as how you're just waiting around on me to violate your virtue." I blushed and nearly laughed at his wording. For one thing, he sometimes sounded so Old World. Like he'd just stepped out of some damn Victorian costume melodrama. For another, it had been a considerably long time since I'd been virtuous and I told him so. "Silly girl. Virtue has very little to do with virginity."

"How so?"

"Virginity is a slip of flesh. Once broken it can't be remade. Not even the cleverest of surgeons could make you a virgin again once a penis has penetrated and torn away that fragile bit of skin. It is a sterile and austere procedure to lose one's virginity, little thing. Virtue is much more complicated."

I didn't understand him really, but it didn't matter. I only wanted him to continue to talk. Especially if his conversation was of such a provocative nature. He continued to speak, but I wasn't listening. I was too mesmerized by the way his lips formed the words as he purred through them: sex, intercourse, genitalia. All terms that before I had thought were so clinical and cold. The way he sank his teeth into his consonants and was so confident and unaffected by saying such things—he made them so… humid. That was the only word I could think of to do it justice. It was as if he were being deliberately sexual in the only way he knew how.

"What about you?" I said, snapping out of my inner dissertation on his sexual vocabulary. "Are you virtuous."

"Not at all." He said this with absolutely no hesitation. "I have nothing to gain by being virtuous. I do what I will, when I will. No point in a lot of pretty seductions and convenient lies. When my body dictates that I eat, I eat. When it tells me to drink or visit the loo, I do. When my body needs sexual release, I fuck. Or masturbate. Whichever is more convenient at the moment."

"And how often… does your body… you know, need release?" A tight lump formed in my throat and the corners of my jaw ached as my mouth watered. I couldn't believe the words tumbling from my lips. Try as I might I couldn't stop them.

"It varies," he replied, taking a drag from his cigarette. "I always find I require more during a really intriguing case. Something about the rush of adrenaline when the puzzle is solved or having to chase down a criminal. Risking one's life—it's an aphrodisiac."

"You like feeling powerful, don't you?"

"Who doesn't?"

"Yes, but you like it more than most. Your mind… it grants you power over others. You get off on it."

He nodded and lit another cigarette. "I suppose."

I smiled. "That's why you like me. I let you have all the power."

"Only because you aren't in a position to argue."

"I am now. But…" I heaved a lazy sigh. "I find that… I like it. I trust you with it. You'll take care of me and that's something I've never experienced." I looked up at him through heavily lidded eyes. His were dark in this light, his pupils so dilated. It made him look predatory and my mouth watered. With a few carefully chosen words and a glance he'd rendered me completely unable to resist. I wanted more. I lay my head in his lap and closed my eyes. Immediately his fingers were stroking my hair. Those long, languorous fingers that I had imagined so many times: caressing my skin, tracing around my nipples, dipping into my sex over and over. My breath was short and I opened my mouth, breathing against his thigh.

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock whispered. His voice was rasping and low. Despite his cold exterior, he was affected. By me. The thought was so overwhelming that I could feel my sex flush with heat.

"Only to please you." He did not reply, but took his hand away from my hair, resting it stiffly on the arm of the chair. For several moments there was no sound, save the gasp as he took the calming smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled slowly. My hand moved cautiously from his knee to his thigh. His lounge trousers were thin and I could feel the musculature in his leg, obviously tense but he did not protest. I knelt up, keeping my eyes fixed on his as I grew bolder, running my fingertips under the hem of his teeshirt, seeking out his skin. I nearly purred when I found his smooth, warm stomach and the fine wisp of hair that graced the spot just below his navel. The waistband of his trousers hung loosely, balanced on the sharp plane of his pelvic bone. I hooked my fingertip in the edge and tugged, at first unobtrusively but when he didn't protest further, I became more insistent. I longed to see him, so curious to see what he looked like. Several mornings, as we lay tangled together in his bed, I'd felt his cock hard against my side. I had resisted the urge to stroke him awake, even as the displaced head peeked from the opening in his pajamas. But not this time.

He shifted in his armchair, raising his hips and pushing them forward as if giving me permission to disrobe him. I obliged, pulling the trousers over his hips until his cock sprung forth. I smiled with sly satisfaction. Evidently he wasn't completely unaffected.

Sherlock was utterly silent as I slid my fingertips along the smooth shaft. He continued smoking, not even watching me. I didn't care, really. I was more fascinated by the involuntary reactions of his cock. It twitched and throbbed as I closed my hand around it, stroking in an erratic rhythm. He was not circumcised and it was strange to see the loose sheath of skin become taught as he grew under my manipulation.

"Put your mouth on it," he said. His tone was so matter of fact, but not urgent. It was clearly a command, but he was testing me. For a moment I was unable to move. His words were like a caress and I could feel them working their way into my head, penetrating my thoughts and teasing my consciousness. He pulled the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and exhaled slowly. His eyebrow was raised expectantly and I could tell he was waiting.

I lowered my head and completely devoured his cock. I took it as deeply as I dared. I could feel it nudging at the back of my throat and I had to pull back. I closed my mouth around it, creating a firm suction that I could feel aching in my jaw. Back and forth in a quick succession of strokes. I wanted him to stir. To make some sound. To grip my face and fuck my mouth with absolute abandon. But as I peered up at him, he seemed indifferent to my efforts. He just sat there taking long, slow drags from his cigarette, staring up at the ceiling. "Stop," he said after several minutes. I didn't want to. His flesh was too delicious and now that I'd had a taste, I _couldn't_ stop. Suddenly, his hands were in my hair and gripping tightly. "Stop," he said again, this time pulling me away from him.

"Did I do something wrong?" I whimpered. My scalp was burning where he still gripped the mass of hair in his fist.

"You're not a smack whore. Don't give head like one."

"What do you mean?" I stammered. Now my cheeks were positively on fire. Was he actually criticizing my technique?

"You needn't suck me off like a desperate whore in a back alley trying to make me come before the police officer walks around the corner."

"I'm not sure I understand…" I said, looking down at the floor and wanting to disappear.

"Then understand this," he began, tipping my chin to look into his eyes. "I won't disrespect you by choking you with my cock or spending in your face. So don't behave as if you are only worthy of that. Do you understand now?" I nodded, holding his gaze in an attempt to show no fear. "You will answer when I speak to you, yes?"

I started to nod again, but then I processed his words. "Yes. I understand." He said no more, leaning back against the chair. This time when I took him into my mouth, I went slow. I tasted the succulent flavor of his skin, savoring it like the most delectable of chocolates. I swirled the whole of my tongue around the length of his member and marveled at how it thrummed and grew larger in my mouth. He didn't move a muscle, allowing me to acclimate and set the pace. I'd never seen a man have so much control as he was being pleasured. If I lingered too long or applied too much pressure, he guided me gently with a hand on the back of my head. This time when I stole a glance upward, he was watching me. Almost studying my movements with a clinical eye. I pulled back almost letting his cock slip from my mouth. With the flat of my tongue I lapped at the tip until the salty sweet dribbles of fluid dripped over my lips. I captured them with a flicker of my tongue, not wanting to miss a drop.

He was no longer smoking and his left hand gripped the armrest tight. Though he still made no sound, I could tell he was close. Hell, so was I. A well placed draft from the window could have sent me screaming over the edge. I wondered, while I was on my knees before him with my ass raised high, if he could see the slippery wet spot on my underwear that I was certain was there. I felt all swampy between my thighs and he hadn't even touched me.

"Bijoux," he said, startling me from my thoughts. How was he not out of breath? His voice was steady and clear. "I'm going to come. Shall I spend in your mouth or would you prefer to finish with your hand?" The cool composure of his question took me by surprise and another rush of heat between my legs made me moan involuntarily. "Was that a clue?" he asked.

"Mmm… well… in my mouth, I suppose," I replied, feeling so stupid. How was one supposed to answer a question like that?

"Then ask for it," he said. He grasped his cock and teased my lips with a light tap. "Open your mouth," he said. I obeyed and he was almost playful as he teased the inside of my lower lip. I was so hungry for him and I tried to take his cock into my mouth again, but he wasn't having it. "Ask. For. It," he pressed.

"Please," I whined.

He grinned. "Such a polite pet."

"Please…" I whispered, kissing the tip with a reverence like I'd never had before. "Please come in my mouth." This time when I opened my mouth, he did thrust his cock inside. It wasn't forceful, but it was deliberate. I suckled hard, finally taking the whole of it inside. He held my head gently, cradling it almost against his groin as he tensed. White hot bursts of his bittersweet essence bathed my tongue and slid down my throat. I swallowed deeply, taking it all in. His entire body shuddered as his orgasm went on and on. Still, the only sound he made was a single, quiet growl as it ended.

He pulled back slowly and let me go. I sat there on my knees, trying to calm my own breathing. I wondered what would happen next. Would he fuck me? Would he go back to his violin as if nothing happened? Or worse, would he be angry and turn me out of the flat? I watched him composing himself and suddenly realized that I was more confused about our relationship than I was before.

After several moments he rose from the chair and rearranged his clothes. He didn't say a word as he walked into the kitchen and poured water in a glass. He walked back to me and handed over the glass. I took it and drank deeply, surprised at how thirsty I was. He lit another cigarette and offered his hand. "Come on," he said. I took his hand and followed him back to the bedroom. He pulled off his shirt and threw it aside. "It's late. Lie down." Again I obeyed. It was so easy to obey him. He wasn't trying to dominate me, it was just his nature. And to me, it was like breathing. I watched as he moved about the room, turning off the light and plugging his mobile into the charger. He grabbed something from the corner of the headboard and climbed into bed beside me.

"Give me your hands," he said. I hesitated. "I'm not going to hurt you, just give me your hands." I did as he asked and he wrapped a soft slip of cashmere around my wrists. His scarf. The blue scarf I'd seen him wear so many times before. He wrapped it around my wrists a few more times and then tied it in a loose knot. "Move them." I tested the bonds and while I could move my arms comfortably, I couldn't free them.

"Why? I don't understand. If I haven't run away so far, I think you can trust me."

He chuckled and I relaxed, warm all over. "I'm not worried that you'll run. As I've told you ever since you got here: you're free to leave at any time." He took my bound arms and pulled them over his head so that we were locked together in a close embrace. "Tell me, Bijoux. How did our little interlude make you feel?"

"Uhm… well…"

"Don't be shy. It's for science." And then he offered me a smile so genuine that it made my chest ache.

"Very… uhm… sexy. Warm… aroused."

"Exactly." His smile faded instantly. "I can't have you touching yourself while I'm asleep. Pleasure is like any other drug, little one. Too much is never a good thing and you can't be trusted just yet." He nuzzled under my hair and kissed the crest of my cheekbone. "There is no release for you unless I give it, understood?" When I didn't reply, he kissed me soundly, forcing his tongue into my mouth as if possessing it. "Yes?" he asked, pulling back. When I still didn't reply, he kissed me again until finally I was breathless and could only nod helplessly. "Good girl," he whispered. And before long, still throbbing with unrequited desire, I slept.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bijoux gets an interesting phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing but Bijoux.

By the time I awoke he was gone.  I rolled over and stretched across the bed, feeling along his space for signs of residual warmth.  It was cool as a cucumber.  As my eyes focused I could see the swath of blue cashmere still wrapped around one wrist.  He’d evidently freed himself to get up some time ago.  A long while ago given the cool sheets.  I pulled the scarf away from my wrist and was surprised to see that it hadn’t left a mark.  He’d been very careful.  I got up and began to move about the room.  I found one of his dressing gowns lying across the end of the bed and I pulled it on.  My stomach fluttered as his scent filled me up once more.  How could any human being smell that good? 

Padding out of the room, I made my way down the hall, listening for any sign of life.  It was cold.  The wind whipped around the corners of the building and there was a frigid draft in the hall.  I could hear someone moving around in the parlor.  I turned the corner and saw a small woman flitting from one cluttered surface to the next.  She seemed to be dusting and I couldn’t help but giggle.  Cleaning this place was a little like the little Dutch girl with her finger in the hole in the wall, holding back the water.  She heard my chuckle and looked up.  “Oh… sorry.  I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not at all, dear.”  She put down her dustcloth and came over, offering her hand.  “I’m Martha Hudson.  I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s all right,” I said with a yawn.  “I probably should have been up ages ago.  What’s the time?”

“Half-past nine.  Not too terribly late.” 

“Where is Sherlock?” I hugged myself against the chill and tried to look unobtrusive as I wandered around the room, peering behind doors. 

“He left very early,” Ms. Hudson replied, putting down her dustcloth and going into her pocket.  “Not really like him at all.  But he left this for you.”  She handed me a small envelope with my name across the front in his scrawling hand.  The whistle on the teakettle screamed, startling us both.  “Oh… I’ll just get that.  You like some tea, dear?”

“Yes, please,” I answered, sitting down in his chair and opening the envelope carefully.

_“Good morning, little one.  I trust that you slept well despite your awkward position.  And that you continued to obey my request. I certainly hope so.  Chastity belts are so medieval.”_ I smiled and wondered if that was a joke.  _“In the meantime, I’ve decided that your wearing of my clothes is unacceptable.  For one thing, you’re stretching them out with your ample bosom and curvaceous hips. For another, you look like a member of my homeless network in them.  They’re much too big.  So today you’ll be remedying that situation.  Enclosed you’ll find a credit card with your name on it.  Don’t worry, it’s attached to an account that while generous, is finite and has already been paid for.  Your clothing and other expenses will be subtracted from the account.  Please don’t start spewing any rubbish about being a ‘kept woman’ or a mistress.  I don’t appreciate the implication, so stop it right now.  For now I am in a position to take care of you and believe me, you need to be cared for.  We can discuss your feminist sensibilities later.  Your shopping companion will pick you up at ten.  Be a good girl and have a lovely day.  --- Sherlock”_

“What’s he say, dear?” Ms. Hudson asked, handing me a cup of tea. It was pleasingly warm and I could smell a hint of cinnamon that immediately made my mouth water. 

“He’s sending me shopping,” I replied, taking a sip. 

“Oh I see,” she said.  “Well you’d better get going then, dear.”  The old woman smiled.  It was a warm and knowing smile that made me feel a bit embarrassed.  As if she knew what had been going on the night before.

I spied the clock out of the corner of my eye and noticed that it was now a quarter ten.  I gulped the remainder of my cuppa and rushed into the bath.  The water was almost too hot as it splashed down, but it felt good.  The muscles in my arms and across my shoulders still ached from the strange position I’d been forced to sleep in and the warmth of the shower was a welcome relaxant. 

A damp towel had been thrown over the curtain rod, obviously his.  I ran my fingertips along the terry cloth and brought it to my nose.  It was definitely his.  I could smell him.  I got some kind of strange thrill out of using his towel to mop at my dripping nether regions.  I was quite certain that evidence of last night’s adventures still lingered on the insides of my thighs.  Despite the thorough wash, I still felt sticky between my legs as I stepped into simple, cotton knickers that I found in the chair by the bed. For a moment I considered breaking my promise.  It wouldn’t take much.  I was still so turned on by the thought of what had transpired between us the night before.  I could still hear that low growl just before he came.  The way he’d cupped the back of my head in the palm of his hand, holding me gently but firm as he spent in my mouth.  The bittersweet flavor of his essence on my tongue that slid, all viscous and warm down my throat.  I shuddered, wanting so badly to touch myself.  The disobedience of it after his command would only make the orgasm sweeter.  He would never be the wiser. 

A steady knocking at the bedroom door snapped me out of my lusty fugue.  I peeked around the crack in the door to see Mrs. Hudson standing there holding a phone.  “Yes?”

“Sherlock is on the phone for you,” she said, pushing the phone through the door so I could grasp it. 

“What are you doing?” he asked as I put the receiver to my ear. 

“And hello to you too.”

He chuckled.  “Hello.  What are you doing?”

“I’m getting dressed so I can meet this shopping companion you’ve sent.  You know, you could just call it what it is:  my chaperone.”

“Mary is not your chaperone.  I just thought you might like some company.  And seeing as how I loathe shopping, I thought she’d be more appropriate.  Besides, once you’re through, you’ll be having dinner with myself and John.”

I smiled.  Evidently he’d planned my entire day.  “Oh.  Well I suppose I have no choice, then?” 

“Not really, no.  But as with all of my requests, I promise you’ll enjoy them.”

“You always seem so sure of yourself.”

“I don’t _seem_ sure of myself.  I _am_ sure of myself.”  I heard him cover the mouthpiece on his phone and the muffled sound of his voice talking to someone else. 

“Why are you calling me?” I asked, pulling on a pair of jeans as I cradled the phone to my ear with my shoulder.  “I’m trying to get dressed.” 

There was crackling on his end.  This time when he spoke, his voice was low, as if he were trying to keep our conversation to himself.  “So tell me, Bijoux.  Have you been a good girl this morning?”

“I don’t think I know what you mean, Mr. Holmes.”  I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from giggling.  I was being deliberately coy and wanted to see how far he’d let me go.

“Oh I think you know exactly what I mean.  But if you insist on my being blunt.  You haven’t been touching yourself have you?”

My cheeks were suddenly aflame.  Something about the way he said this without the slightest hesitation just made it that much more sexual.  “No,” I replied, my voice trembling slightly.

“Sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“But you thought about it.  You were thinking quite seriously about it when Mrs. Hudson interrupted you with my call. Am I wrong?”

More blushing.  It felt like I’d swallowed a handful of stones and they were caught in my throat.  I coughed to clear it.  “Ahem… well.  Perhaps I was just thinking about what sort of clothes I wanted to buy.”

He laughed.  “I doubt that very much, Bijoux.  When you answered the phone, your voice had a lazy but annoyed edge to it.  Like someone who had been caught doing something they shouldn’t and was trying to cover it up.  Don’t lie. It doesn’t work on me.”

“Fine.  You win.  Of course I was thinking about it.  I wasn’t exactly… satisfied when I went to sleep.”

“I see.”  There was silence on the other end of the phone.  I assumed he was thinking about what I’d just said and if he should be insulted.  “What are you doing right now?”

“Trying to button these jeans, but I have to say it’s not the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”  It was true.  The jeans he’d purchased for me had been obtained when the sickness of my drug abuse had taken hold and I had wasted away to almost nothing.  Of course, the last few weeks of being clean and contented had allowed my appetite to come back.  I would need to lie down on the bed to flatten my stomach enough. 

“Stop,” he said.  “Take them off.”

I spied the clock by the bed.  “What?  But Sherlock… it’s nearly ten.”

“Then obey quickly,” he said.  “Take off the jeans.  And those dreadful white cotton knickers.  You won’t be needing those today.”  Taking a deep breath, I stood up and peeled the jeans away from my legs, along with the underwear.  “Are you doing it?”

“Yes…” I stammered, trying to get the narrow ankle openings over my feet. 

“Have you done it?”

“Give me a second!” I snapped.  Finally I managed to free myself of the offending trousers and sat down on the bed. “There.”  I was suddenly aware that I was sitting on his bed in my bra and nothing else.  What if Mrs. Hudson came in?  The phone I was holding was a white cordless landline.  Definitely not Sherlock’s phone.  All he seemed to have was that damn mobile he was always clicking away on.  She might want it back.  Or worse, she’d just barge in to tell me that this Mary person was here while Sherlock was messing around, making me late. 

“Good.  Get up on the bed.  Don’t put the phone down.” 

“Okay,” I said, sliding backward until I was sitting in the middle of the bed. 

“Up on your hands and knees.  Keep the phone poised between your shoulder and your ear.  Don’t.  Drop. It.”

I started to protest.  That was nearly impossible.  The gravity would make it slip from that awkward cradle almost immediately.  “I… I don’t think I can.”

“Of course you can.  Go down so that your head and shoulders is resting on the pillow and your bottom is raised.  You can use the pillow to keep the phone in place.”  I followed his direction, feeling like the world’s greatest idiot in this pose.  I could see myself in the mirror opposite and I looked like a cat in heat.  That was most likely his purpose all along.  “Bijoux?  Are you there?”

“Yes,” I said, struggling to work my head around so that I could both hear and speak to him.  “I’m here.”

“Good.  Now, bring your knees apart.  It will stabilize your position.”  I struggled to do as he asked, cursing softly into the mouthpiece before finally accomplishing a very compromising position.  To my surprise, he was right.  The further apart my knees were, the easier it was to balance in such a precarious place.  “Better?”

“Much,” I replied.

“Good.  Tell me how you feel.”

I bit down on my lip.  How could I articulate all of the sensations bubbling inside?  It was almost as exhilarating as the drugs.  That rush of adrenaline at the fear of being caught.  The urgency that was fueled by knowing this stranger was coming to meet me at any second.  “Kind of embarrassed, I suppose.”

“Why?” he chuckled.  “You’re alone, aren’t you?”

“Well… yes… but I can still hear your housekeeper—“

“Landlady.”

“What?”

“She’s not my housekeeper.  She’s my landlady.”

“Whatever.  She could come in at any second.”

“You’re right.  She could. In fact, I might have told her to come in and get you when Mary arrived.”

“What?!”

He laughed. “Don’t worry.  She’ll probably knock first.  Most likely.”  I think I was probably blushing everywhere at this point.  My entire body radiated heat that was centered over my sex.  The fleshy little organ was flushed and felt positively swollen not just from the kiss of breeze against it, but the hum and cadence of his words and the fact that he had so much control over my body even though he was miles away.  “So tell me more.  Embarrassed and…? Quickly now, I’m at a crime scene.”

“Sexy.”

“Mmm…” he hummed.  “Go on.”

“Like my body is a machine.  Just waiting for you to come turn it on.”

“Good.  Very good.”  He was silent for a few moments and I could hear him breathing softly against the mouthpiece.  It wasn’t labored, like someone who was aroused, but more of that control.  Like he was working something out in his head.  “You know, I bet if I told you to hold that position, just that way, until I returned this evening—you would.  Wouldn’t you?” The thought that as long as he kept talking to me in that low, growling baritone, I’d do anything he asked occurred.  But I wasn’t sure I should tell him so.  “Don’t worry.  I wouldn’t do that.  I take no pleasure in causing you discomfort, Bijoux.  Say thank you.”

I smiled and suddenly I was certain that he could tell.  “Thank you.”

“Good girl.  You should be able to hold the phone in your left hand and steady yourself on that elbow.  Yes?”

“Mmmmhmm…” I replied. 

“Good.  Because I want you to be able to keep the speaker very close to your ear and your mouth very close to the phone.  Slide your right hand down until you can touch your labia.  Do it now.”  My mouth watered as he said this.  I had to stretch a bit and my sore shoulder screamed, but I wanted to do as he asked. “Are you able to do it?”

“Yes,” I gasped.

“Are you in any pain?”

“No… my shoulder is getting used to it.”

“Good.  If you have pain then stop, understand?”

“Yes.”

“What do you feel there?”

“Uhm… my uhm… well…”

“Oh don’t suddenly become a tittering schoolgirl, Bijoux.  You seemed fairly well-versed last evening.  Now is not the time for shyness.”

“My pussy…”

“No… _my_ pussy.  And I loathe that term.  We’ll have to find a new one.”  I couldn’t help laughing.  He was so odd, but it was such an endearing sort of oddness.  “So you can obviously feel _my_ pussy there beneath your fingertips, but be more specific.  Quickly. I’m at a crime scene.”

“It feels slick.  Sticky almost.  And warm, almost like I had a fever that had settled there.  I almost feel swollen, like all the blood has rushed in and it’s tingling.”

“Good.  That’s how it should be.  I would endeavor to keep it like that to varying degrees every minute of every day.  Do you think I could, Bijoux?”

The words caught in my throat as I tried desperately to answer.  But I couldn’t.  My mouth was a desert and my tongue just stumbled over my lips as I tried to force some kind of intelligent reply from them.  “I… yes.  I know you could.”

“Touch yourself there, Bijoux.  Just a soft, deliberate stroke with those delicate fingertips all fresh and clean from your bath.”  I did as he asked, sliding the pads of my fingertips along the fleshy petals that wept those slippery tears.  As I did so, I moaned out loud.  It was an involuntary reaction and I bit down on my lip hard as if I might take it back.  “Yes… very aroused indeed.  I trust that you are well and fully open?”

“Mmmm… yes…” I whispered, practically unable to form a coherent thought as I continued stroking lightly, as I imagined he would.

“If I were there, I could slip my cock inside of you so easily.”

“Yes,” I whimpered once more.

“Tell me how easy it would be, Bijoux.  Slide your fingers inside as deep as you’re able.”  I obeyed, pushing two of them past the tiny, muscular opening that seemed to be reaching for them. 

“Oh God, Sherlock,” I moaned, stroking gently inside, my thumb nestled against that shy bundle of nerve endings.

“No no no, little one.  You mustn’t go too far,” he whispered.  “As I said before, there is no release for you unless I give it.”

I was nearly weeping with the unrequited pleasure he brought.  He wasn’t even here and I was mewling at his will, letting him control every twitch of muscle.  “Please…” I whined.  “Please let me come.”

“Oh I’m afraid not.  In fact, you’d better sit up now.”  I hesitated and his voice changed.  That tense and overly calm timbre he’d had when we first met came back.  “Sit up now.  Please don’t make me ask you twice.”  For a moment I wondered what sort of punishment he might have in store for me should I choose to disobey.  I sensed that he would not beat or hurt me as so many of those before him had, but his disappointment would be more excruciating than anything else.  “Are you sitting up?”

I was panting heavily, but I sat up anyway.  The entire lower half of my body was thrumming and as I drew my knees together, I gasped as they made contact with the overheated flesh.  “Yes… I’m sitting up.”

“Good girl.  You did very well, but I really do have to go now.  The Detective Inspector gets very antsy when I keep him waiting.  And if my calculations are right, which they usually are, Mary should be ringing the bell right now.  You’d better get dressed.”

“I take back all those warm, fuzzy feelings I was having about you earlier,” I said with a smirk. 

“Don’t have warm fuzzy feelings about me, Bijoux.  It’s very likely that this is all just a very complex experiment.” 

“Oh?  And how long do these experiments generally last?”

“Ages.  Anyway, be a good girl and keep your hands to yourself.  I promise your pains haven’t gone unnoticed.”

“Does this mean I’ll be rewarded later?”

“Mmm… perhaps.  Oh… and Bijoux, before I go, I have only one request while you’re out shopping today.”

“Yes?”

“A dress.  Or skirt—it’s up to you.  We’ll be dining in a restaurant with a very strict dress code.  It’s for a case, so you’ll need to blend in.”

“All right.”

I could hear some commotion in the background and Sherlock shouted at someone to shut up before turning back to the phone.  “Just one more thing— leave your knickers behind.  As I said, you won’t be needing them.”

“But Sher—“ It was too late.  The line was dead and I was left throbbing and uncertain once more.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone goes to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I own nothing except for Bijoux.

When I was a kid, I never made friends easily. In fact, that’s how I ended up taking drugs. I went to a party with my cousin. Everyone was sitting around a bonfire and passing a bottle of cheap wine. Finally, someone brought out some pills and began passing them around. When the bag came to me I hesitated, but the other kids were looking at me so expectantly. I wanted them to like me so I tried it. Consequently, I’d never really had any girlfriends. But Mary Morstan- Watson was exactly the sort of girlfriend I’d have chosen for myself. She was pretty, witty, a bit naughty and most importantly: she didn’t once ask me about my drug addiction. In fact, she didn’t make any judgments about me whatsoever. I was just Sherlock’s friend. She didn’t even ask if we were sleeping together. And it’s a good thing. I still didn’t really know.

“I think this one would look sensational on you,” Mary chirped, holding a petal pink sheath dress up to her frame. The fabric was thin and flowing, gathered just under the bust with a large cameo. It was sleeveless and slit to the upper thigh on one side. “It would look rubbish on me, but you’ve got the long legs for it.”

“Wow… that’s… really beautiful. But isn’t it a bit much?”

“Not for where we’re going,” Mary said. “I definitely think you should try it.” She was so excited that I just couldn’t say no as she handed it off to me. We made our way through the store to the back where the dressing rooms were.   “Damn. They’re all full. I guess we’ll just have to wait.” We stood there waiting for one of the rooms. Her arms were piled with items for me to try on. Most of it was pretty casual: jeans, a couple of knit tops with stringy straps, even a cardi that I could throw on if I caught a chill. All of it pretty and feminine. All of it making me feel like such a poser. I’d been a victim of “poor little rich girl syndrome” for as long as I could remember. My parents had always bought me things to make up for the fact that they didn’t give a shit about me. It’s easier to hide emotional neglect when it looks so pretty. I was basically just a doll for my mum to dress up until I got old enough to have my own opinions. Then she just couldn’t be bothered. “So… uhm… Bijoux,” Mary began.

“Jessica. My name is actually Jessica.”

“Oh,” she said, looking a bit awkward. “But then why…”

“Bijoux is my drug name. Well… I mean, it’s the name they used to call me at the House.”

Mary smiled. “Because you were so pretty?”

“No. Because I always paid for my drugs with my mum’s jewelry.”

“Oh.” She was trying not to look embarrassed but was falling laughably short. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay,” I replied. “I don’t mind talking about it.” I looked down at the dress draped across my arms, tracing the folds with my fingertips. “Maybe I should be a little ashamed.”

“Of course you shouldn’t be ashamed,” Mary snapped. “That’s made you who you are now, right?” I met her eyes and she smiled. Before I could say anything else, one of the dressing rooms opened up and Mary ushered me inside.

When I emerged from the dressing room several minutes later, I literally gasped at seeing myself in the full length mirror. The gauzy pink dress hugged my frame in a way that was flattering and a bit unfamiliar. The large, round cameo sat just between my breasts and the way it pulled at the fabric, they looked round and full. I realized that I’d spent too long hiding in my clothes, trying desperately to disappear. I looked so feminine. Flirtatious. I felt beautiful for the first time in my memory. “Oh… wow…” I breathed. “It’s…”

“Perfect,” Mary said, rising from her seat and coming closer. She fussed about me, straightening and smoothing the fabric over my hips. “It’s appropriately conservative, yet incredibly sexy.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah,” she nodded, indicating the slit that began at the hip and opened all the way to the floor. “I think this is exactly what Sherlock had in mind.”

**OoOoOo**

I was trying desperately not to let my jaw hang agape as we climbed out of the cab in front of the most opulent eating establishment I’d ever been to. While it’s true that my family is far from poor, they are most definitely nouveau riche. They had no sense of style and believe me—this place had style. Mary led me into the foyer and my eyes were everywhere. The room was dimly lit with what must have been a thousand tiny points of candlelight from the tables in the dining room. Over my head was a large crystal chandelier that looked for all the world as if it had been stolen from some French chateau. Just beyond the bar was a small dancefloor that was packed with couples swaying and twirling. Before we could blink, a man in a tuxedo swept in to take our coats. As soon as Mary and I approached the bar, we could pick out Sherlock and his doctor friend. They were standing unobtrusively in the corner. Well, as unobtrusively as Sherlock was likely to get. His height and silhouette made him hard not to notice. Not to mention the way he moved. He had this strange grace that I’d never seen in anyone before. The way he held his glass of whiskey or flicked his cigarette ash into the tray at his side. He was pretty, but utterly masculine. His wild, curly hair was behaving for once, trimmed neatly over his ears and pushed back in controlled waves. As always he wore a trimly cut suit, but it was obvious this suit was expensive and more formal. It was the only time I’d ever seen him wear a tie.

“You’re late,” Dr. Watson said, embracing Mary and kissing her cheek.

“Beauty takes time,” she replied. With that she stood to the side as if she were a magician’s assistant, revealing me to the oohs and aahhhs of the audience. “Speaking of beauty.”

I remember one night being stoned out of my mind. I was in this club with some friends and at one point I got up on the table and danced. By the time I was through, I’d stripped completely down to nothing but a thong. That night I felt less exposed than I did right now despite the yards of gauzy fabric. I could feel their eyes on me and I wanted to run away. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Mary asked, pulling me forward.

“Like an absolute jewel,” Sherlock replied. He took my hand and made a big show of kissing the back of it and pulling me close. I blushed, wondering for a moment where he’d been hiding this charm. “Did you enjoy your shopping day, Jessica?”

My heart skipped a beat as he used my Christian name for the first time. “Very much,” I replied.

He leaned into my ear, whispering softly. “You didn’t spend all your money on this dress did you?”

“I bought other things.”

“Oh? What did you buy?” he asked, kissing the small, smooth place behind my ear.

For a moment I hesitated, wondering if this was a test. What if I’d spent too much? Would he be upset with me? “A couple of dresses, a few casual outfits. Even some knickers.” I smirked, glancing sideways to see his reaction.

“Probably wise,” he said. His fingertips trailed down my back until his hand rested firmly on my ass. He was brazen as he gripped it firmly, pulling me tighter into his side. “Good girl.” I smiled. He was obviously checking to see that I’d obeyed his request. This casual praise made my abdomen and places further south thrum pleasantly.

“So what are we doing here, Sherlock?” the doctor asked, clearing his throat a bit louder than necessary. “You don’t usually go in for fine dining unless you’re coming back from the dead.”

“Funny, John,” Sherlock grumbled. “We’re here merely to observe.”

“Observe what?” John asked. He sounded wary. As if he’d been dragged into sticky situations many times before by Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded toward a couple in the corner. The woman was very young, much younger than her companion. At first I thought the couple might be father and daughter, but after a few minutes it became clear that they were paramours. “That woman over there is to be married to the old guy she’s groping.”

“Yeah, so,” John said, motioning the bartender over.

“So, rumor has it that he’s abusive and an adulterer. Despite all manner of evidence, this man seems to have some strange hold over the girl. Her aunt retained my services to find out why and find out what proverbial skeletons might be lurking.”

“Skeletons don’t like living in wardrobes,” Mary remarked.

“Exactly.”

John narrowed his eyes, his mouth slightly agape as he stared at Sherlock. “This seems a bit… tedious for you.”

“I admit it’s not the sort of case I usually take on, but I owe the aunt a favor.”

“You could have solved this at the flat. I’m almost sure of it,” Watson grumbled.

Sherlock scoffed and pinched his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Or maybe I just wanted to go dancing.” Before I could protest, he’d grabbed my arm and swept me out onto the dancefloor. As if I couldn’t feel more ridiculous, now I had to dance. I don’t dance. It was always one thing about me that men found so desirable. I never required them to dance with me. I have two left feet and no rhythm whatsoever, but Sherlock was a different story. As with every other aspect of our relationship thus far, he was able to bend me to his will with just the slightest application of pressure. As he led me into the dance, I was struck by his grace. I wouldn’t think that someone as tall and angular as he would be such a great dancer. Usually men shaped like him looked like a large insect on a hotplate when they danced.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I shouted over the din of music and voices.

“You’re letting me lead you,” he replied, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me closer.

“I’m going to step all over you.”

He laughed. “No you won’t. Just stop looking at your feet and trust me.” He pulled me along, perfectly timed with the slow jazz that filled the room. He twirled me once and I stepped on his foot.

“Damn,” I cursed. “I told you.”

Sherlock traced the curve of my jaw with a single fingertip. Just that simple touch tingled and I felt my cheeks flush. He tipped my chin higher, forcing me to look at him. “Don’t look down. Just look at me.” I nodded weakly, lost somewhere between the deep icy pools of his eyes and the regal slope of his nose that pointed toward that perfect mouth of his. But I did as he said and soon we were moving with the crowd of dancers like we’d been doing it our whole lives. He was a strong lead and I couldn’t seem to put a foot wrong. Finally I was smiling and relaxed as we moved deeper into the crowd.

“I’ve never done this before,” I said as the song changed to something quieter.

“I’m glad I could be your first.”

I didn’t know what to say and his gaze was so heavy. I looked away, seeing Mary and John dancing on the other side of the room. I smiled thinking how the two of them looked very awkward dancing. “The doctor looks miserable,” I observed.

“He always looks like that,” Sherlock replied. “Mary has been trying to get him to dance with her for ages.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. If we hadn’t plied him with alcohol at their wedding, he wouldn’t have danced then. He’s awkward on his feet, you know.”

“But you aren’t.”

“Of course not. If I don’t excel at something, I study and practice until I’m expert. John isn’t so patient. But don’t sell him short. He does have talents of his own.”

“I would imagine patience is one of those,” I replied, giving him a pointed look.

“Cheeky girl.” He winked, giving my backside a sharp smack that made me stumble forward into his arms. Suddenly we were very close. So close that I could feel his breath in my hair and feel his heartbeat against my chest. I closed my eyes, tilting my chin higher. I wanted him to kiss me. Strangely, during our encounters, he’d never kissed me. On the forehead, sure. But never on the mouth. I couldn’t help but wonder what his lips might feel like against my own. Full and forceful or gentle brushes of flesh? Would he possess my mouth immediately or let me make the first move? The questions and anticipation rolled around in my belly and then settled low, a ball of heat hovering over my sex.

Suddenly we stopped moving and I opened my eyes. We’d run aground, having run into Dr. Watson and Mary. “Sherlock, come on. Mr. Gruner and Miss Merville are sitting down to eat.” My head was woozy as he took my arm, threading it through his and leading me away from the dancefloor. With a nod to the maître d’, the four of us were led to a table opposite the couple in whom Sherlock was so interested. It was a round table with a high-backed, leather bench around one side that Sherlock and I slid into.

Sherlock and John began to talk in hushed tones about their case. Mary chattered away at me from my other side, but I have to admit to not listening. I tried to look attentive and nod in all the right places, but I just couldn’t stop thinking about the heat of his leg against mine. About how close we’d been to kissing on the dancefloor. My belly was full of butterflies. As I crossed my legs under the table, I was very aware of the fact that I wasn’t wearing a stitch of underwear. The skin between my thighs felt plump with heat and every movement sent a shiver of arousal straight to my clit. My sex felt so empty, but heavy at the same time. I’d been aroused for days it seemed with no relief. It made me sit up straight and kept my mind occupied with replays of our encounters. How they might have gone differently if he’d given in to my pleas for release?

When the waiter came, Sherlock ordered for me. Something rich and indulgent given the expression of the waiter. When he suggested an appropriate wine pairing, Sherlock was quick to say that we would not be having wine. I had to bite my lip to hide the annoyance. A glass of wine might be just the thing to quell the storm currently taking place in my lady parts.

Throughout dinner I couldn’t help feeling as if I were watching everything unfold. Like they were on telly. Sherlock, John and Mary did most of the talking. Occasionally they’d ask my opinion on something, but I wasn’t really interested in engaging. It wasn’t awkward. On the contrary, I felt as if I’d known these people for years. They whispered about the couple in question and I just listened. I felt bad for the girl, Miss Merville. It was obvious to me that she had been trapped in a situation she didn’t fully understand and now she regretted it. Though she smiled and fawned over her companion, whenever he spoke, she seemed almost afraid to respond. As if she might say the wrong thing. I almost felt a kinship with this stranger.

“What do you see?” Sherlock asked, leaning in to whisper against my ear.

“What do you mean?”

He nodded toward the couple. “You’re studying them pretty closely. What do you see?”

“Uhm… well… I certainly recognize an abused girlfriend when I see one. He fluctuates between annoyance, anger and indifference toward her. She puts up with it because he has something to offer. Something she’s not getting from someplace else.”

“Such as?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Money, stability, approval. Maybe a combination of all those things. She’s a lost girl.” My voice hitched a little and I cleared my throat, trying to hide it, but Sherlock didn’t miss a thing. “Girls like that leave themselves open to predators.”

“Indeed they do.”

“She has no self-worth. She won’t stand up for herself. Her aunt was quite right to call you.” Suddenly, an unexpected bubble of laughter slipped from my lips.

“What’s so funny?’

“Saving stupid little girls. It seems to be your lot in life.”

“I’ve been trying not to make a habit of it.” He smiled and kissed the cuff of my ear just as the waiter brought our dinner. It turns out he knows exactly what sort of meal I’d like. Ever since I’d been with him at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had made at least one meal each day and there was always something in the fridge. I asked him about it once. Why he never ate but there was always food. He explained that he wanted to be sure I was eating. But the plate before me was more incredible than anything I’d had in months. Steaming red meat, tasty vegetables and some kind of sparkling iced tea that almost made up for the lack of wine.

“Well, I did some checking on Mr. Gruner,” Doctor Watson began. “It seems our Miss Merville is not the first sweet young thing to be engaged to him.”

Mary feigned shock and clutched her chest. “You mean he’s… an adulterer?” John gave her the same long-suffering look I’d seen him give Sherlock lots of times.

“Yes. But I think Sherlock would agree with me that it’s kind of a pattern. Almost a fetish. They’re all around the same age.”

“And they all have the same look about them. All of them society rejects. Products of old money that has dried up. All of them desperately in need of cash.” Sherlock pushed his plate aside. He’d barely eaten a thing.

“What could they possibly have to offer him?”

“Nothing. That’s what puzzles me.” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his lower lip and seemed deep in thought as the rest of us rattled off possibilities for motive. He wasn’t listening. I could always tell because his eyes were almost closed and he was twitchy. He was always twitchy when he was thinking. As if he had some kind of muscle movement that would help him remember the scrap of information he was looking for. Evidently John and Mary sensed it too, as they finally just stopped talking altogether.

“Right, so… let’s dance.” Mary got up and dragged John to his feet.

“What? No…”

“Oh come on. We may as well have some fun.” She wasn’t taking no for an answer as she shoved the doctor toward the dance floor and smiled a little too brightly.

I sat there a little while longer, feeling a bit awkward. Mr. Gruner suddenly noticed that I was watching him and turned, narrowing his eyes in a way that made my blood turn to ice in my veins. As his cold, beady eyes bore into me I was certain that whatever he was up to was sinister. Very. I had seen men like Gruner many times before. My ex was a Gruner. Able to manipulate and keep you tied to their side with an invisible chain. I slid closer to Sherlock on the leather bench seat. I wanted to hide from the angry gaze of the stranger across from us.

“How much longer will we be here?” I asked, resting my head on his shoulder.

“A bit,” he mumbled. “I’d be interested to see where Mr. Gruner goes after his repass.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock turned slightly, looking down the slope of his nose to stare at me. My head sank and suddenly I wished I could disappear into the cushions. His gaze was too heavy and it made me feel guilty. “What’s the matter with you?” he snapped.”

“Nothing.”

“Please don’t lie, little one. It doesn’t become you and I can always see right through it.”

With a sigh, I gestured toward Gruner and his reluctant fiancée. “People do all sorts of things to make someone—anyone—like them best. Miss Merville over there, she stinks of desperation. She’s willing to completely degrade herself to be loved. Or what she thinks is love. It’s depressing. And that man… he’s dangerous. I don’t like the way he looks at her. Or at me. So I’d rather go if it’s all the same.”

“It isn’t all the same,” he said. “Despite my behavior of the last several weeks, I do have to work! Miss Merville’s aunt is paying me quite a bit of money to get her niece away from him and I don’t have time to waste being your nursemaid!”

I winced as his words snapped and bit. “Oh… okay… it’s fine…I’m sorry.”

We lapsed into an awkward silence. Sherlock played on his phone a bit, his agile fingers fluttering over the touch screen with a near-impossible pace. Finally he sighed and sat up straight, tossing his phone aside. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.

“What?”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you before. I’m a very impatient man and sometimes I take out my frustrations on other people. I’m sorry.” He looked almost ill as he spat out his confession. I could tell that he wasn’t used to apologizing to anyone and I wondered if he was really sincere this time or if he was bowing to the social convention. He knew he’d hurt my feelings and now he wanted to apologize because it was “the right thing to do.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve been… I guess living with you for a while now. I’m getting used to your snapping.”

He looked thoughtful. A few times he looked as if he were going to say something but then he reconsidered. Finally he said, “You don’t accept my apology. You think I’m just telling you what you want to hear.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to. Your body language reveals everything.” He gestured to where my hands were folded in my lap. “You’re gripping your hands together tightly and your mouth is a hard, straight line. Your eyes while normally a deep blue, have turned to an almost ice like color and you’re staring straight ahead. I can also see a pink splotch on your chest which indicates a rush of emotion. You’re pissed off at me because you think I’m insincere in my apologies. Am I wrong?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, not quite ready to forgive him just yet. “Maybe.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, still staring. “I can assure you that my apology is quite sincere. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m just frustrated with the situation.” He took my hand under the table and squeezed gently. “Please forgive me.”

Finally I smiled and moved closer to him again. This time his demeanor was warm and he embraced my body against his side. Gruner glanced in our direction once more and Sherlock kissed my temple. He nuzzled under the curls at the nape of my neck and whispered softly against my skin. “I think Mr. Gruner may be on to us.”

“Oh?” I sighed, getting lost in the feel of his lips on the soft space just behind my ear.

“Mmmhmm… He’s looked over here three times now and each time he’s stared just a little longer.”

“So… what does that mean?” I wasn’t really paying attention. He could have been talking about anything. I was only interested in the spicy scent of his aftershave and stale cigarettes as my cheek brushed against his. The rough texture of his jaw scraped my skin and gooseflesh broke out all over. It felt as if every millimeter of my skin tingled. I was once again very aware of the fact that I wasn’t wearing a stitch of underwear and I crossed my legs nervously.

“It means,” he began, taking the fleshy part of my ear between his teeth gently. “That we have to stop looking like we’re interested in him at all.”

“Oh good,” I sighed. “I’m putting on the perfect ruse.”

“Indeed.” His hand rested high up on my thigh just over where the high slit in the dress opened. I was very aware of the tip of his thumb circling the small bit of exposed flesh. “I have a confession to make,” he growled against my ear.

“What’s that?”

“I have to confess that I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything today.” He nibbled my earlobe, sliding his tongue around it and then sucking gently. “That’s really why I snapped at you.”

“At me?” I gasped as his hand slid under the slit of my gown and around the inside of my thigh.

“Yes.   It’s all your fault, Bijoux. Occupying my thoughts with memories of those pretty little noises you made this morning while you played with yourself.”

“I’m… sorry…”

He chuckled softly and kissed my temple. “No you’re not.” His fingertips absently stroked the sensitive skin at the inside of my leg, a mere hair’s breadth from my sex. “I thought perhaps denying your release for another night might be the perfect punishment for such treachery on your part.” Here he paused, drawing the smooth pads of his perfectly manicured fingers along the junction where my leg met my pelvis. I whimpered and attempted to slide forward in the seat, but he held me firm. “Shh…” he whispered into my hair. “We’re in public.” I gazed into those endless pools of aquamarine and nodded slowly.

“But then I thought about how you’ve been such a good girl today.” He nudged my thighs apart just enough to allow his hand between them. “And how much I wanted to hear you scream my name.” His sinuous fingers parted the moist folds of my labia and dipped inside. “You’re so wet, Bijoux. Have you been this way all day?” I answered with a sharp intake of breath as he found my clit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear that…”

“Yes…” I answered finally, my voice more of a breathy sigh.

He made a sound between a purr and a growl, low and rumbling in his chest. “I like that. I want you to be warm, wet and waiting for me every second of the day.” He emphasized his words with gentle nudges of his fingertips that ventured further inside, pressing past the tight opening. I wanted to cry out, to moan… anything to release the tension he was brewing with the slow, deliberate circles he traced just inside. I closed my eyes as I felt it building, growing heavy and bringing back that urgent sensation that I had finally managed to quell. I couldn’t stop myself. I moaned aloud. Gruner and his date looked, the waiter stopped and an old lady on the other side of the booth dropped her glass of wine. “You mustn’t make a sound, little thing. If you do, I’ll have to stop. Do you want me to stop?”

I shook my head vigorously. “No…”

“No. You don’t,” he whispered. “Open your eyes and look at me.” I obeyed and he smiled wickedly, but otherwise showed no outward sign of what was going on under the table. Somehow he knew just how to touch me. The rhythm was just slow enough to cause a steady pulse, keeping me teetering on the edge of complete abandon. I wanted to move, to arch my hips and force his fingertips deeper inside. Just a tiny push is all it would take and I’d be screaming my release into his shoulder. Before I could make a final plea, Dr. Watson and Mary came back to the table.

“Sherlock, we should go,” the Doctor said. “I think Gruner’s on to us.”

“Oh?” He asked, pulling his hand away and reaching for the napkin by his plate. He was very nonchalant as he wiped the evidence of his teasing away from his fingertips. “What makes you think that? He hasn’t moved since we got here.”

“His valet. Bodyguard… whatever he is. He followed Mary and I out on to the dancefloor and stood there watching the entire time. I think he knows we’re following Gruner.”

“It’s fine. I got what we came for,” Sherlock replied.

“What? How?”

“How can you not see it?” Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. “Honestly, sometimes it’s as if I’m standing alone in a room full of goldfish.” He motioned for everyone to come closer. “Gruner spent a considerable amount of time talking to the gentleman that’s now standing by the bar. He’s the restaurant’s sommelier. He brought several bottles over to Gruner’s table and he tasted several before deciding on a single bottle. A bottle of the Montrachet, 2003 was what he decided on. A bottle of wine that costs more than 2000 pounds—he’s a collector.”

“So?” Watson snapped. “He likes his wine.”

“Dear Lord. Really?”

“Just get to the point, Sherlock!”

“What we need is to find some evidence that Miss Merville can use to get her niece away from him. What better way to do that than to get into Gruner’s house?”

“You’re going to break into his house?” Mary asked, a bit too loudly for comfort. Then quieter, “Are you insane?”

“Oh of course not.”

“Good,” Mary sighed.

“John is.”

“Wait. What?”

“Tomorrow though. Tonight would be too suspicious.” He pulled a billfold from inside his jacket and pulled out several notes. Then he slid out of the booth and stood up, offering me his hand. “Come on, Jessica. It’s late. And John doesn’t need us tagging along on his drive with Mary.”

“My drive with Mary?”

“Mmm… someone will have to find out where he lives.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and Bijoux get together.

The cab ride was long and frustrating. Funny, I hadn’t thought we were that far from the flat, but it took nearly an hour to get across town and back to Baker Street. Sherlock sat in his corner of the seat fiddling with his phone. Every so often it would beep accusingly and he would click off a response with a furious tapping. How anyone could text that fast was a mystery to me. I sat still as a stone beside him, afraid to move a muscle. I willed myself to breathe evenly and not give any sign of how much our encounter in the restaurant had affected me. And I admit to being slightly disappointed that he seemed to be able to turn his affections on and off like a faucet. I could still feel his breath on my neck, his mouth moving deliberately against my skin, his fingertips lightly stroking my sex. I had hoped that once we were alone in the cab that he would continue, but he acted as if nothing had happened.

  
By the time we arrived at the flat I was so confused that I was almost dizzy. I wanted to say something but then I realized, what on Earth would I say to him? “Hey Sherlock! Still want to fuck me?” Somehow that didn’t seem appropriate. But oh how I wanted him to. I felt like a big bottle of expensive champagne that had been shaken up but the cork was stuck fast. I knew if this kept up I would spontaneously orgasm just from walking across the room. But it was more than that. His attention was intoxicating. When he turns that rainbow colored gaze on me, it’s like I’m a child standing in the sun for the very first time. I can’t get enough. I find myself wanting to show off, do something crazy and unexpected—even something “bad.” Anything to get his attention.  
I chewed my lip as I followed him up the stairs. My heart fluttered in my chest and I stumbled on the last step so that he had to take my arm to keep me from falling. “All right?” he asked. He was still distracted. He’d caught me purely out of instinct. His eyes were on his phone, but his firm grip around my bare arm was enough to make the skin on the back of my neck prickle with excitement.

  
“Yes,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“Sure? You seem tired.”

“I… I’m…” I wanted to step outside myself and slap my own face. Why on Earth was I stammering like a schoolgirl? “I suppose I am. It’s been a long day.”

“Then perhaps you should go to bed,” he replied. “It’s late.”

“Join me?” I blurted. Again, I wanted to slap my own face but he smiled. “I mean… I just thought… you look tired too.”

“I never sleep when I’m on a case,” he said, his eyebrow cocked. He was obviously challenging me. He knew exactly what I meant.

I stared down at the floor, suddenly very interested in my shoes. They were nice shoes. Mary had picked them out. “I didn’t say anything about sleeping.”  
He gave a short nod and just a slight quirk of his eyebrow, but gently pushed past me to pull his jacket off. He threw it over the armchair and sat down at his laptop. Immediately his fingertips began tapping over the keys. The furious clicking went on and on as I stood there. I watched the clock over his head. It was wrong, reading half-past four. It was well past midnight. Perhaps even later. But the long, red hand that counted out each second was moving around the face. I watched it make three revolutions before I started to feel stupid. Perhaps it was a test. He wanted to see how long I’d stand there waiting for him. I had gathered from my observations of his and Dr. Watson’s relationship that he did this a lot. Just little experiments to test just how far his friends would let him go. I could feel myself rolling my eyes in annoyance. “I’m going to bed,” I said finally.

“Good night,” he replied, not looking up.

“How long are you planning to stay up?”

“No idea,” he mumbled. I heaved a sigh, unable to keep my emotions at bay any longer. Finally he noticed that I was just staring and looked up. “Problem?”

I started to speak, but was unsure of anything I might say that wouldn’t spark his anger. Three times I attempted and the words wouldn’t come. Finally, I just spat it out. “I don’t think I like being tested tonight!”

His smirk was so arrogant, so infuriating. Now I wanted to slap his face, but I just stood there with my fists clenched at my sides. “Tonight? Just tonight?”

“Yes!”

This time he laughed and stood up, stalking toward me. The dim light gave his already wolfish features a sinister cast and I backed up as he came near, almost cowering. “Love, I’ve been testing you ever since you arrived. Pushing your boundaries. Seeing how far you were willing to go. How much you were willing to trust. It’s what I do. I’m a scientist. You expect me to be… emotional. And I’m sorry to inform you, but that’s not going to happen. I won’t be overwhelmed with desire for you to the point of taking you right here by the fireplace. So if that’s what you’re looking for, you might as well leave now.”

I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Of course not, but if you want something you’d better tell me because I haven’t the time to stand around navigating your emotional maps or coddling you like a child.” He stood there, staring at me expectantly with his arms crossed over his chest. His words stung and I knew if I tried to talk back I’d end up weeping like an idiot.

So I did the only thing I could. I ran to the bedroom and closed the door.

****

I slammed the door behind me, fully expecting that he would come after me just any second. He didn’t. I don’t know why I would think that. Nothing about his personality thus far should lead me to that conclusion. No, he was probably sitting there in front of his laptop tapping away as if nothing ever happened. In fact, he’d probably already forgotten about the restaurant, the phone call this morning, nearly kissing me on the dancefloor—everything. How could a man so frighteningly intelligent and interesting and sexy and warm be such an ass, I thought to myself as I tore the delicate pearl necklace Mary had let me borrow from around my neck. I kicked the shoes off and reached behind to tug at the zipper at the back of the dress. I was able to inch it down just enough to let the straps slip down my shoulders. At first I tried to just shove the damn thing down over my hips but it was too tight a fit. I shimmied back and forth trying to dance my way out of it, but the silk fabric just wouldn’t give. “God. Damn. It!” I shrieked, finally losing it and weeping into my hands. I wanted to be out of this dress. It felt like a silk prison. And it made me feel like a fraud.

“Do you need some help?”

I turned and he was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning against the frame. Looking fucking beautiful. And it was fucking annoying. I didn’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, pushing away from the door and coming toward me. I shied away from him, but he gripped my shoulder and turned me around. The tips of his fingers brushed down my spine and came to rest on the offending zipper. It was stubborn and he had to pull at it a little, but like everything else, it bent to his will eventually. He slid the zipper down slowly, all the way down to its terminus in the center of my backside. His knuckles brushed the skin there and I flinched. “Do I scare you?”

“No,” I replied through gritted teeth.

“Liar,” he growled, sliding his hand fully down the open back to caress the plump cheek. “I can hear your breathing. Staggered, short… almost panting.” As the words dripped from his lips like warm honey, his hands kneaded the soft flesh.

“Maybe I like being scared.”

He chuckled, drawing his fingers along the valley between my buttocks until I moaned aloud. “Maybe you do,” he said, pulling away. “God you’re such a brat.”

It felt like there was too much air in my lungs and I coughed. Once more I wanted to hit him. How dare he come in here and use my own lust against me! “What do you mean?” I croaked finally.

“You make me completely contradict myself at every turn. I said that I would never resort to being emotional, however right now I’m experiencing several at once.”

I tried to seem uninterested as I kicked the dress off and crawled into the center of the bed, naked and trying to seem nonchalant about it. He wasn’t the only one who could play games. “Oh?”

“Mmm,” he hummed. He moved about the room with a nervous gait. Like a caged beast. He pulled off his tie and threw it aside and then began working on his belt.

“Amused at your display, fascinated by your complexity, confused by this tug of affection I seem to have for you, enflamed with desire, and at the same time—absolutely furious with you for making me feel this way.”

“I’m sorry?” My jaw tightened as I noticed he was gripping the slick leather belt in his hand.

His eyes followed my gaze and he smirked. “I’ve told you so many times, Jessica. You needn’t worry about my hurting you. Though a few lashes with a belt might do you considerable good.” He laughed and dropped it. “Perhaps a game for another day.” My mouth was a desert as I watched him finish disrobing. He was so matter of fact about it, like everything else he did. He wasn’t least bit embarrassed or coy. I also got the distinct impression that he was challenging me. But how to win the game? Should I be silent or give voice to the cacophony of licentious thoughts running through my head? Or perhaps I should pull back the duvet and climb under as if I were going to sleep.

When he turned back I was still sitting on my knees in the middle of the bed, just staring. His posture had changed, as had his body language. He was no longer gruff or stilted. His eyes were warm and lazy as he approached me but still he wore that sneer of arrogance that was both infuriating and impossibly sexy. “Come here,” he commanded. I obeyed, crawling forward on the bed until I was kneeling before him. My first instinct was to lean in and kiss the base of his cock that now stood proudly at eye level. My mouth watered at the thought, but I knew better. He was like a wild animal that would attack if I made any sudden moves. I gazed up at him through my downturned lashes and he jerked his head, indicating that I should kneel up. The bed was shifting beneath my knees and I had to grab his arm to keep from pitching myself off the corner of the bed. “You really must learn to be more graceful, little thing. If I wasn’t so eager to claim your charms for my own I might devise some punishment.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Do stop apologizing and kiss me,” he said. I did as I was told, arching up and offering my mouth. He pulled back, teasing me. I reached out to force him closer, but he grabbed my wrist and held it behind my back. “Stop trying to tell me what to do.” When finally our lips met, it was everything I thought it would be and more. Like with everything else, Sherlock was confident and decisive. There was no tentative brushing of his lips against mine. He took possession immediately and forced my compliance with rough brushes of his tongue against the crease of my lips. He completely overwhelmed me and for a moment I couldn’t breathe, relying on him for every breath. His arms slid around my waist, pressing our bodies together. I could feel the sharp corner of his pelvic bone at my hip, the hard knot of his cock at my center. My arousal, which had been lying dormant for the last two days, suddenly awoke and the rush of heat was intense. I found myself grinding my sex against him, rutting like an animal in heat. His hands grasped my buttocks, so low that I felt his fingertips brushing that forbidden space between the anus and vagina.

“So ready and we’ve barely just begun. You really are a wanton little thing, aren’t you?” With that he gave a gentle push that left me sprawling in the middle of the bed. “It’s all right. As long as it’s just for me.” As he climbed over the end of the bed, he looked like a beast of prey, closing in on me. I backed up, wiping my mouth with the back of one hand. I felt so wet. Everywhere. I was afraid that any second I would be drooling like a starving man at the kitchen window. I don’t think that I had ever in my whole life wanted something as badly as I wanted Sherlock.

Not even morphine.

I lay back against the pillows. They were cool against my back and I sighed with relief. Everywhere was so hot: my cheeks, my chest, and places down below. The insides of my thighs and sex were blistering with heat and I opened my legs to cool them. I expected that he would immediately lie between them, entering my body fast and furious, but he didn’t. Instead he approached slowly, kissing the top of each foot, then ankle. He worked his way along the inside of my leg, pausing at the knee. He kissed lightly, coaxing me to bend it and open myself further to him. His eyelashes fluttered over the skin that was so sensitive where the blood rushed to the surface. The tip of his tongue traced the thin scars hidden at the top of my thigh. He lapped at them as if he might wipe them away with the sweeps of his tongue and lips. I arched my back, begging him with my body to kiss me there—in the one spot where I needed to feel him the most. I thought I might die if he didn’t do it soon, but he pulled back. Sitting up on his elbows, he stared down at me. It was almost clinical. His fingertips played over the soft spot just above my sex. Just enough to tease. I whimpered and he smiled, evidently enjoying this power he was wielding over me.

“I just can’t decide,” he said. “I can see you trembling. Right there on the precipice. All it would take is a single push and you’d crumble under the weight of your own arousal. And you’ve been waiting so long.” As if to accentuate his words he swept the pad of his index finger over my clit. I shivered, crying out in surprise. “Of course it would deny my own pleasure at feeling you come while I’m buried deep inside of you.” He brought his fingertip to his mouth. I could see that it was slick with my essence. He licked tentatively at the tip. “I’m not sure I can resist tasting you.” Before I could respond or even process his words he kissed me, using my sex like it might be another tiny mouth. His tongue was firm and deliberate as it pressed into me, hinting at what was to come. The muscles deep inside shuddered as if they might reach for him, taking more of the teasing invader. I wanted to scream. To take those luxuriant curls of his in my fist and force him against me until I came. But I knew if touched him, even made a move to take the slightest hint of control, that he would stop. And I don’t think I could stand it if he denied me again. I bent my knee, opening myself further. I arched again as if I might hint at what I wanted.

I almost cried when he pulled away. “Please,” I whimpered. “Please don’t stop…”

He climbed over me, settling himself between my outstretched thighs and gazing down into my face. It had not escaped my notice in all this time that Sherlock was exceedingly beautiful. I never knew that men could look like him. His features were refined, almost delicate, but masculine. So very masculine. But now, from this angle, in this light, his normally razor sharp stare was lazy. Almost warm. His sneering smirk relaxed as he brushed my hair back from my forehead. “Silly thing. As if I could.” His tone was low and rough. He was obviously affected. I could feel his cock pulsing as it nudged against me. He leaned in and kissed my mouth. I could taste my own bittersweetness still lingering on his tongue. Mixed with the suggestive way in which he nibbled at my lower lip, it was perhaps the most erotic experience of my life thus far.

When finally he entered, it was in one long, languorous stroke until he was completely seated deep in my womb. There was no pain, no resistance. I was relaxed and so ready to receive hm. A completeness like nothing I’d ever known settled inside and I knew then that I’d been sleeping with strangers my entire life. Sherlock was the other part of my soul that I’d been trying to find all these years. I had filled myself up with abusers and addicts and drugs, trying to figure out what was missing. And with a single gesture the mystery was solved. It was Sherlock Holmes I’d needed all along. The realization was so powerful that I could feel tears wetting my cheeks.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.

“No,” I sighed.

He began to move slowly within, pulling back until only the tip of his cock teased at my opening. He reached down, tapping the head against my clit until my body begged for him. Then he would plunge back inside to the hilt. My cries of pleasure echoed in the small room and I was concerned for a moment that Mrs. Hudson would hear me and come running. But all coherent thought was quelled as he ground the base of his manhood against that hidden knot of nerve endings. I could hear his breathing, jagged and laborious against my cheek. I nearly wept when he simply whispered, “Come.” And I did. Wave after wave rolled over me, rocking my body. Sherlock covered my mouth with his, letting me scream my climax into him. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, to hold him as close to me as possible, but he wouldn’t allow it. Instead he grabbed my wrists, pinning them to be bed. As my release ebbed, his was just beginning. His strokes grew deeper, rougher. He wasn’t hurting me but I knew I’d be feeling his marks tomorrow. When he came he growled my name, calling it out over and over as his body shuddered against me.  
I’m not sure how long we lay there, panting against one another. Both of us had been waiting so long, now that it was over we were utterly spent. I lay in his arms and for once he wasn’t manic or impatient. His fingers stroked my hair as he kissed my forehead and temple lightly. “Thank you,” I whispered finally.

“For?”

I hesitated. He was so warm and this was comfortable. Why spoil it with the truth? “Just… thank you.”


End file.
